Wild Dogs
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Two boys decide whether they want to be humans or monsters. But the funny thing is, all monsters are human.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey, guys. I know I've disappeared off this site for a while, but I do have something for you now! Behold, my fic for the first ever HiJack Big Bang! And I actually finished it, so that's a surprise hahah. Hope you guys enjoy it.**

**Also, my wonderful Beta was: cashewkitty**

**And my amazing artist was: sammy-who-are-these-people**

**Both can be found on tumblr since ff doesn't let you insert links! I will link the art once I get the link from my artist. If you want to see the art for this fic, find it on AO3 for now. **

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"What makes us human?"

The first time you asked me this, we were sitting beneath a windowsill. Hiding amongst the rose bushes and Crown of Thorns. Not because we wanted to, but because it was all we had. I was eleven, and they were chasing us. Big, heavy feet hitting the pavement. Those kids followed us everywhere. After school, they would jump out from behind the bicycle rack - everything exploding in color.

Blue. The lake outside the school, full of fish that I drew. You pushed me into the water and I swam to the surface. Gasping as my vision blurred. You're such a dumbass sometimes. Laughing in that ADD way, like you can't decide which is funnier; me falling in, or the way I look afterwards. Hair stuck to my forehead, water dripping down the freckles that you love to count. Your eyes are blue, too. Blue as ice. Blue as plague.

Yellow. The dead grass, those kids' teeth, the flecks at the edges of my eyes. You notice those specks all the time.

Green. The living grass, the leaves spiraling around my feet. I blinked and felt the breath inside me. I was a plant, rooted to the sidewalk. Waiting to rip the rhizomes up and run.

Red. The streak of clouds burning on low-heat as the sun starts to set. Because the sun always seemed to set early. And I always liked that sky. The kind that makes you think the world is going to end. A flower that poked out of red dirt. Orange petals that curled into themselves. They looked kind of like plastic. Like the slide on the playground. And the tips of my fingers that were stained with paint. Giving them a sheen that glistened in the sunlight.

They slapped my sketchbook out of my hands.

You were inside the jungle gym. White knuckles gripped the flaking metal. In a second, you were there, picking up my sketchbook and colored pencils. You rolled them between your fingers.

"Leave Hic alone."

The biggest kid raised his eyebrows. "Piss off, Overland."

But you didn't piss off. You stayed and threw a rock at his forehead. And then they chased us through the playground. Slip under the jungle gym. All of the geometric shapes. Square holes and oval doorways. I dove under the seesaw, scrambling around in the sawdust. You grabbed my arm.

"Get up! There's no point in hiding, just run!"

So we did, hand in hand. You've always run faster than me. Long legs struck the sidewalk. With each step, you inhaled. As if you didn't really need to breathe at all. Those sunburnt cheeks growing ever redder as we sprinted down the street.

They struggled behind us. We were too fast for them.

Your voice was breathy. "Quick, this way."

Past houses with dark green lawns and picket fences, through some strange neighborhood that reminded me of a horror film. Almost too perfect. You see a house that looks like all the rest, and for some reason you think it is a perfect place to hide. And so we come to the windowsill. Crouched in black dirt that covered my shoes. Rose thorns buried themselves in my skin. The Crown of Thorns was worse. I felt the cuts, sharp and stinging.

"You're bleeding."

I shrugged. "So are you."

"What makes us human?"

The first time you asked me this, we were sitting beneath a windowsill. This windowsill. The one covered in flaking paint that fell down on our heads. And you sitting there, shrugging, because blood never bothered you. It never bothered me.

The words were almost tangible. I could feel them, taste them on your tongue. Even though my tongue was busy inside my own mouth, being chewed on and slashed by nervous teeth. I was nervous. I was scared. You… you were never scared. And then you asked it. Slight tilt of the head, hair hanging limply down your neck. You looked like a plastic bag to me, if that makes any sense. All crinkled and restrictive. Like you could suffocate me if I wasn't too careful.

"Hic, what makes us human?"

"Huh."

A shrug that popped your bones. "What makes… wait, nevermind."

"No, what were you going to say?"

"Nothing, nothing." I hated that about you. That repetition, repetition. The kind that fades into forced silence. Acting like you were afraid of me or something. Was I really that scary? No, there's no way. I'm the quiet artist that sits in the corner and paints, with headphones buried in his ears. You're the crazy one, Jack.

You sighed, your hand hovering over a patch of thorns. "I was just, uh, wondering, what makes us so human. I mean, _are_ we even human?"

"Is this rose a flower?"

"Well, yeah, obviously. I just-forget it."

I rolled my eyes to the back of my head. Why won't you ever say what you mean? "Tell me what's wrong, Jack. You never ask thought provoking questions."

Touch a thorn. "Geez, thanks."

"You know what I mean."

Touch another thorn. Quickly. Back to position one, all five digits skimming the barbs. "I guess. But I'm serious. What makes us human?"

Third time you've asked that question.

I bit my tongue some more. Bright red drops sliding down my chin. So many tastes. Iron, thick and raw, and almost repulsing. But at the same time, not. Ripped flesh in my mouth, pooling liquid that slipped between my teeth. And then I knew the answer.

"This." I showered the rose bush with blood. "This makes us human. Flesh, blood. That's what humans are made of."

You scoffed. "According to science."

"According to books and scholars and everyone intelligent. According to me." Which is all that should matter to you. Right. Right? God, you used to make me so mad. You still do. I looked askance at you. "Jack, not everyone can be like you. Obsessed with fairytales."

You froze. Fingers so close to pointed thorns. Closer and closer. "That's a low blow."

"I, uh, I'm sorry."

"Think before you speak, Hic."

You turned away from me. Knees drawn up to your chest, blue eyes cold. Well, not really. Your eyes never change. They're always the same temperature. A factory standard freezer. Full of meat, strung up and never moving. Because nothing is alive. At least, I don't think so. Still, your dead eyes hurt me.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"Fine. Whatever."

Your voice was barely a whisper. So I looked up at the sky. Dozens of red cuts and purple bruises. Ran my tongue over my teeth. Everything tasted like iron. And I felt bad, I really did. I know how you held onto your childhood. All of those stories about the "Man in Moon", according to your foster father. I liked him, liked him a lot. He made things with me, told me I would make a fine carpenter one day. Never made it that far. Would he be disappointed?

I sighed again. "Why would you ask a question like that? Now I'm curious."

"Not sure. I just think about it sometimes."

"But why?"

Our predator's - correction, prey's - footsteps came out of nowhere, hitting the ground hard. My eyes slid to the right. I couldn't see you, but I know you were doing the same thing.

"Why, Jack?"

"Because of what we're about to do."

Your sudden movement made me look over. All five fingers were clamped onto the thorns. You didn't even flinch. Blood dripped down a pale wrist.

I knew what you were thinking.

I always know what you're thinking.

Known from the very beginning.

From the moment I walked outside, the school doors slamming behind me, it was all part of our plan. They were always behind the bicycle rack. Every day, every lunch period. We had been tracking them for weeks. Their movements and habits. Jackass A chewed on his fingers in class. I had found the ragged nails under his desk. A nervous fellow, I had told you in my mocking way. An insecure, anxious, jackass that hid his hands in his front pocket. Jackass B washed his hair with Axe. I had gotten a whiff of it when I sat behind him, and given you a smirk and an eye roll as you mimed chucking your pencil at his neck. Jackass C kept a picture of a Sports Illustrated model in his locker. I had found it after breaking open the lock that one night. My hands covered in gloves, your eyes shining in the dark.

You never did any of the research. You still don't. So I strap myself in, per say. Taking notes in my sketchbook. Never going online, never, ever, ever. Browser histories have gotten people convicted before. Not like I would ever Google "how to hide a body" or "tips on how to perform a proper asphyxiation", but even the slightest word could give us away. Anything beginning with "how to". None of the B-words; blood, bruises, bones, butcher knife, bludgeon, bury, etc. No F-words either; flesh, forge, frame, fire, fu- That has nothing to do with killing. Nevermind. Point is, I did all the work. Learning about our lovely little targets and all of their mysterious ways. And by mysterious, I mean completely predictable.

Jackass bullies.

Simple people live simple lives. They have simple deaths, too. If they are lucky, that is. When it comes to you and I, however, we are anything but simple. I kept that in mind as I watched them "surprise" me from behind the bike rack. Leaves spiraled around our ankles. You were in your usual spot, planted inside the jungle gym. Waiting for the signal. I held my sketchbook out, tempting them. Come on, you know you want to. Just smack it, you fools; provoke my friend with the cold, dead eyes. They took the bait. It unfolded like the pages in my book. Neat, and dragging on the concrete. Stupid-heads chased us. Followed us into our perfect world.

Straight into that house which was not so random after all. Anything but.

Rows of identical houses that looked too plastic to be real. We could use a few dolls. Something to liven up this place. The windowsill belonged to no one. The roses and Crown of Thorns belonged to the dirt. Vacant house behind us, we took deep breaths. That house was our world, our playground. Foreclosed and left empty for months, it served as a convenient way to hide in plain sight. Suburbia has always scared me. It scares a lot of people. What could be happening behind those picket fences? Past those pressed pastel drapes? Inside every shuttered window and locked door? Who knows? And the canal that flowed outback, it held all sorts of secrets.

Our house was perfect on the outside. Mashed up on the inside. Like us. A floor full of holes, and walls covered in scratches. Animal bones scattered all over the broken tile. I think a family of foxes lived in the basement. It sat on a cold-a-sac, alone. Like us. No one ever came near. It was haunted. The only wrong thing in the neighborhood. A stain on their stationary. So we used it. Used it all up - sucked it dry with our teeth bared and our nails scraping. Scraping up the paint and linoleum. Linoleum covered in months of dust that we sucked into our lungs. Lungs working overtime as we waited and anticipated. I hoped. You prayed. Two very different things. People seldom came. Only when we led them would they arrive.

So we drew those three jackasses into our trap. You asked me that ridiculous question that haunts me to this day. And then they came. Straight into our arms. I thought of colors again as my heart pounded. Beats aligned with their footsteps.

You grabbed my hand with your bloody fingers. "You're trembling."

"So are you."

A shrug. "So what?"

"So, you're just like me." I poked my head up above the leaves. Three shadows stood in the driveway. "I see them. You ready?"

"I guess."

I gave you a stop-the-bullshit look and tossed you a pair of gloves, ones I always kept in my back pocket. Tucked inside a plastic bag that was tucked inside another bag that was tucked inside a wallet. Just to be safe. You pulled them on.

Your smile could freeze the marrow in my bones. "Fine. Of course I'm ready. Readier than ever, actually. I… I've been waiting for weeks. Months."

"Me, too. I hate these guys."

Another quick glance. They were getting impatient. Calling out our names in the coming dark. "Hey faggots! We know you're hiding like girls. Where are you?"

You cracked your knuckles. One by one. "Ok, that's our cue."

I readied myself. Just waiting to pop up like a book, you coming out like a Jack-in-the-box. "Quick, before we start. Why do you do this?"

"For fun."

"For justice."

We said it at the same time. And then you jumped up, shrieking. "Oh no, you've found me!" You always liked to overdo this part. "Oh please, don't hurt me! I'm sorry!"

Jackass A walked up to you. The rest of his alphabet following close behind. Of course they never noticed the gloves. You could have been wearing an "I Heart Serial Killers" shirt and they wouldn't have cared. "It's too late for apologies, Overland."

One hand behind your back. Fingering the belt and loops. You had unbuckled it a little while ago. The brown leather always made a good noose. "B-But I didn't mean it!"

"Sucks to suck. Now you and your bitch are gonna pay."

Seriously, you deserved an Oscar. The tears looked so real. And by real, I mean almost human. You never quite achieved true humanity.

So I lied whenever you asked me that question. I don't know what makes us human. And I don't care.

Jackass B cracked his knuckles. One by one.

You gasped. "I didn't mean to throw a rock at you!"

I hid in the bushes. Watching their legs through the lattice of brown and green. Good work, good work. Now lead them away. You've always been fast. Leaves scattered as you bolted down the side of the house. I grabbed the belt, the one you left for me in the dirt. Cracked leather covered in teeth marks from previous… let's not say victims. Thieves say commandeer instead of steal.

Let's see.

Clients?

Prey?

Pieces of trash? Because that's what they were. No, no. I'll call them nothing. That's what those three boys were in my mind. If you were a plastic bag, they were paper bags. Recyclable, easy to replace. But you, you stay around for a long time.

Still, now that I think about it, we should have thrown that belt away. There were teeth marks on it. Evidence, damnit, evidence. But then again, who ever suspects children?

Belt wrapped around my hand, I climbed through the broken window. That's how it always worked. I took them from behind. Still chewing my tongue. Sweat beading on the back of my neck. Ran across the potholed floor, listening to you outside. The sound of bodies against the house. Tripping, grabbing at the hose.

Stuck to the side of the house. The faucet was rusted, flaking silver that came off on my hands. I always liked that, how my palm was speckled with chrome. Freckles were brown, reminding you of drops of chocolate. You used to try and lick them off me. That awkward gesture. Tongue scraping skin in the partial darkness. Back then, I didn't understand.

Now I do.

I kept running. Hopped over a table with the legs sawed off. Almost tripped on a loose board that's full of nails. One of them slid down my shin. A red scratch appeared and stung like hell. Thoughts of fire hydrants and thick streams of boiling water. Of red stop signs smeared with graffiti. Paint. My love of art ran by me in that second. More like an obsession. And that sick, hidden reason for doing what I do.

Maybe I kill because killing is an art. Because red lines are nothing but lines and flesh is nothing but modeling clay.

I always berated you for having fun.

But maybe I was having fun, too.

"No, no, don't hurt me!" Your voice leaked through the shattered glass. Three shadows loomed over the windowsill. There they were. Boys drawn to the back of the house, breathing hard as the sun burned low on the horizon. Cover of darkness, shield of black. We were safe behind it. And they came closer. Pushed unknowingly into a corner by their "prey". Bad people are like wolves. They circle what they want. With burly bodies or black ink. It doesn't matter. This is their weakness. They have to hold on to that feeling. Edge of your seat kind of feeling, the kind that comes from grinding your teeth. Making your victims wait and think and dream and scare. Growl a little. Howl a little. Then they lunge. Pride gives us revered moments. It also gives us a chance to strike.

Pride is raising your head too high, for too long. Your long neck becomes exposed and I am all over it. Asphyxiation is my favorite.

All three jackasses laughed and cracked their knuckles again. I rolled my eyes. Popping the air in between your joints isn't cool. Not cool in the slightest. That's why I hate it when you do that.

There was a knife lying next to the hose. Hidden amongst the rose bushes. We planned everything out. Hopefully, you had grabbed it as you ran. We were outnumbered by one. How inconvenient. So you would have to be fast. And clean. And spot on. Stabbing is messy. I've always hated your technique.

"We're blocking the window, Overland. You can't slip inside like a pussy." Another crack. "And we'll chase you around this house until you can't walk anymore."

Heard you swallow. Such a provoking movement. Your muscles aligning and shoulders pinching as you struggled for breath. There is something there, within the folds and flaps of skin. Something I… enjoy. The sound, the sound. Of nothing. When you struggle, it sounds like nothing.

"L-Like I said, I didn't mean to throw a rock at you-"

"Doesn't matter. I'm gonna beat your ass."

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding, crouched under the window with the belt taut and ready. Jackass B was on the left of the others, closest to my hiding spot. That house was made for us. The perfect trap. With you against a wall, no way out, and the others slowly creeping closer. Like a play.

This is the blocking.

Jackson Overland to stage right. A glance offstage, to the lone audience member waiting in the wing. My cue came and I bounced on the balls of my feet.

"I didn't mean to throw the rock…"

"Shut up."

"I meant to throw this." And in an instant your horror fled, replaced by a grin that split your face. I heard it cracking. Paper cracks, too, when you fold it and crinkle it the right way.

Silver flashed. The knife went snicker snack, across someone's neck. Severing the jugular just enough. Ugh, blood spattered everywhere. Paint on a blank canvas. My empty face. I would have to clean that up.

I jumped up, silent, and slipped the belt over his neck. Pulling him inside the house before he could even gasp in surprise. It took all of my force. I've never been the strongest ant in the hill. Bones popped as I yanked him through the window. You were smooth and fluid. Above my grunts, I heard your laughter.

You howled. "Didn't see that coming, eh, dick-head?"

The other guy just stood there, watching his friend fall to his knees. Almost comical. A slow motion collapse. Like watching a building implode on itself. Knees bend forward. I could hear it all; the scraping bones, the compact dirt accepting weight. Pebbles struck the sill. A few tumbled inside. Shock overwhelms the body in a number of ways.

One. The rapid breathing. It comes in the form of a snot-nosed child. Shoulders quaking. He couldn't even blink.

Two. Cold hands. Yours have always been cold. But I could see the difference in his palms. Sudden whiteness. Swathed in chalk or bright printer paper.

Three. Weak pulse. My ears are attuned to that kind of thing. You used to call them supersonic. But no, I'm just good at narrowing. Narrowing down my options and my input. I select the information that runs through my arteries and veins. Computer-like, I say. Nerd-like, you say. Still, I heard it. Other things sounded similar. The beating of a baby bird's heart. Fallen from her tree. Straight onto the cold earth. She dies when the temperature hits freezing point. Wings turn to glass. You crush them beneath your boot. I never killed animals.

Never.

You never killed children.

Never.

Though, at the tender age of eleven, weren't we killing our fellow man? Yes, we were. Sure, our victims were eleven, but so were we. Equals. The weak should only be killed by the weak. The strong by the strong. At least, that was your ideology. I said no - whoever deserves death will be dealt it. By you and me.

I counted the seconds as the boy watched his twitching friend. Feelings turn people into statues. Especially in times of panic. How inconvenient.

"You waiting for him to die of shock? Stab him, you idiot." I rolled my eyes, the boy struggling beneath me. A lot heavier than my scrawny body. He rolled his eyes, too. Staring at my empty face. Probably wondering why I was doing this. The leather belt cracked along its seams, making a red ring around that fat neck. It was raw, and reminded me of fresh chicken.

Thank God he passed out when he did.

I stuck my head out the window. A sweaty palm felt blood, warm and wet. I grimaced. "Jack, what are you waiting for? He's gonna run!"

You shook your head. "No… no, he's not. Look at him, he's terrified. Peeing his pants right now and everything."

Yeah, you were right. The stain moved slowly down his leg, his eyes wide and dry. Surprising, but not really. His mouth was a hollow rip in the center of his face. I could think of only one thing: The Scream by Edvard Munch.

"Jack…"

You waved me off. "I know, I know. I'll get to it, ok? But right now, I would like to savor it. It's like going out for ice cream. Standing in those long, candy-colored lines and finally, finally tasting it. Holding that cone in your hand and licking-"

Your knife clean.

"-the drops as they dribble down your hand. And you want to hold onto this moment because it will go away soon. Go away-"

Forever, if we get caught. Pick up the pace, dumbass.

"-forever if you're not careful. So yes, I will savor this fun, fun moment." Kick the twitching body once, twice, three times. It's just a sack of meat.

"Enough, Jack." I looked at you, over the top of the sill. The sleeping body weighed against my chest.

"Fine. Whatever you want, Hic."

You turned to look at me. Your eyes were that of a puppy dog. For a second, I wanted to pet you. Maybe collar you.

Back to the frozen boy. "Now, I'll deal with dickhead number two. You're such a big dick, metaphorically speaking, so why do you need a real one?"

Two flips of your knife and you lunged at him. He screamed and jumped to the right. So close, Jack. I commend your attempt at accuracy. A miss, and a sliced femoral artery.

You screamed, "Damnit!" as the blood came gushing out. "I was this close, this close!"

Your indignant portrayal implied you missed by centimeters. Sorry, but I thought you were off by a few inches.

"It's fine, Jack, you can castrate him later. Just get the bodies in here."

"Whatever. Hold on a sec, I'll toss them in."

And you did.

I often remember how easy it was in those days. That house was all alone, tangled up in overgrown grass. Dark green against a fiery sky, with us running free like wild dogs. We were each other's bitch. In the best way. You licked my wounds; I scrubbed the dirt off your cheeks. I kept you clean; you kept me safe. Relatively speaking. Because you were reckless, like the puppies in the alleyway. Trying to be the big dog. Cuts on your wrists and ankles, scar along my back. Was it easy? No. But we were free. We were young and innocent. No one ever blamed a stupid little kid, and no one ever came to that house. Now that I think back, we were fools. Anyone could have stumbled in. Drunk teenagers, curious neighbors. Witnesses.

Thank the high wooden fence for that. Eyes never saw beyond the vines and weeds. Backyard business was closed, private. Guarded by a near empty pool full of snakes and spiders.

I did my work in the dark. You did yours by the moonlight, soft and glowing against the paper thin sky. Skin like paper. Crinkled up in sheets that you throw away.

The house was two stories. Plain on the outside; a pale yellow that made me think of egg yolks, and a brown roof that absorbed the sun. Tiles fell off in the middle of the night. I flinched when they clattered to the ground. Broken bits and pieces all over the grass, but the plants were somehow still alive. Bodies dreamed beneath their roots. Full of life blood that fed the blooming roses.

So many colors.

Breakfast colors.

Yellow eggs that ooze over white china, chipped from years of use. I had a set of plates once. We ate on them together. Those were nice nights. And then there was the toast brown roof and the black coffee sky. Colors I that could paint. That's what those bodies were anyways; circles in which I painted. Lines and valleys of negative space, just waiting for my scalpel and brush. Because that is what I did. While you hacked away, I made careful incisions.

Let us begin.

Our own little breakfast club.

The house was black at night. Sunlight died in a fistful of flame. Together, we pulled the bodies inside; one of them dead, and the other dying soon.

"Hurry up, Jack. He's almost bled dry."

"Don't be dramatic."

Red looked fake against your skin. Finger paint or something. That night, everything about you was inanimate. We moved our mannequin bodies up the stairs. One by one, our victims were placed on the ground. I was careful. The floor was covered in newspaper. Not that it frickin' mattered anymore. You spilled blood all over that damn house. Still, it was better than nothing. One less place to clean up. Where was a child supposed to get things like rubber sheets?

Bleach was my friend. I would steal it from the cabinet under the sink. My foster parents were never very good at hiding things. Plastic containers sat in the corner of the room. Newspapers lined with duct tape were laid down so that nothing slipped through. We even laid one over the obituaries. You've always liked to be ironic. The others bled onto the advertisements page. A jugular hung out, draped across a seven day forecast.

You groaned and cracked your neck. "At laaaassssstt. The time is nigh!"

"You talk so strangely sometimes."

"I try to spice things up. Now, let's get started."

It took about two hours. They never woke up. I let you hack two of them into a million pieces. The last one, though, the one I choked, was different. He was… special to me. That kind of enemy that only comes around every so often - a true bastard.

Talking has never been my strongest skill, so I said nothing. Nothing. But eyes unblinking, I stared at him when he awoke. Crawling out of sleep like a poor, lost puppy. He was tied down. Words, words, words. Words mean nothing to me. But colors, yes. They make sense to me.

Red. The arteries inside his eyes. Ridges snaking along the mucus. Lens cold and hard. Unbroken. Not for long. His flushed skin grew hotter beneath my gaze. Red lips, red tongue, red mouth. Open but not screaming. Red tears. Hot water running from a faucet. He pleaded with those arteries. I longed to pop one. So I did. Stuck my scalpel deep into his left eye. Balled up newspaper stuffed into his mouth. No one heard him scream.

Blue. The darkness. Moonlight came in geometric shapes, stretched across his heaving chest. Water is suffocating. It's blue. I've always longed for fingers around my neck, choking me until I am mere inches from death. How glorious. But no one ever strangles me. No one has the guts. Fingerprints on flesh, dusted off at crime scenes. And I can't strangle myself. Oh, the irony. Back then, I did not know the extent of my fixation.

My fixation for asphyxiation.

Now I know. The depths of an obsession. Infinite and echoing. It cries out in a voice that is not my own. Even now, as I recall our early days, I am sinking. Sinking ever further into the hole. My rabbit hole is lined with onyx. Water is thick like blood and syrup. Two very different things. The body's life force. The topping on my pancakes. But blood can be used in many ways. So I slit a blue vein and smiled.

Black. His eyes, my mind. His tongue lay upon the entertainment section. No more screaming. You were already finished. You talked to the air around you and complained about me. Thanks a lot. Baggy jeans and a blue hoodie that looked black in the light. It was covered in blood.

Come on, Jack, really? Why'd you have to be so messy? Making me clean up your shit. Most people's shit consists of half eaten sandwiches and empty soda cans. But no, not you.

You smeared the blood across your face and sighed. "Are you done yet?"

"Give me half a second, geez." Rolling my eyes, I continued my work. Made random cuts across the body. Just as random as that house, as those killings. When something seems too obvious, people call it random. Law enforcement would never see those marks as precise, but I sliced very precise places. The flesh beneath the jaw. Warm and pulsing. The arms and the torso. Poor guy was dead before I even finished. Blood pooled on the newspaper. I held my paintbrush in my left hand.

It's like paint by number. Fingers and toes were triple digits. I kept counting.

"205, 206…done."

You threw your hands up and groaned. "Finally!"

I laughed softly, wiping my sleeve across my forehead. "I know, you hate my method but—" But wow, look at that masterpiece. "—but you have to admit, it's kinda cool."

A shrug. "I guess. He looks like he's going to a football game. All painted like that."

"I don't watch much football."

Your wry smiles have always made me blush. "You wouldn't."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

That smile sunk deep into your face. "Nothing. Now get up, we have cleaning to do."

I shook my head. "And by we you mean me…"

"Hmm?"

I love how you always pretend not to hear me. "Nothing. Go outside, get yourself cleaned up."

"Whatever."

You left. Light footsteps barely audible. Please, do as you're told. No fooling around. I went back to my work. His dead body was beautiful. Red lines around his neck. Like a necklace. Every inch of skin painted red. My lifeless statue that should be in a museum. I removed the newspaper and placed the tongue back in place. Shut his mouth, placed folded hands across his chest. Perfection. Let's marvel in it. In the way the flesh is still warm and the tears still wet. Two seconds of revelation, and then it was over. I had to move.

Clean-up process was long. An expository essay. First clean the bodies with bleach. Just to be safe. It burns away skin and fingerprints. Because you've always been sloppy. Next, stuff each body into a black garbage bag. Black skies, black shoes, black eyes. Your victims were simple to dispose. Mine, not so much. I wrapped him up in several bags and hauled everything downstairs while you stood outside and let the water run over you. One, two, three bodies out the window. Into the rose bushes and thick dirt. A fat moon rose higher and higher into the sky. For a moment, I felt like I was in a refrigerator. You know, when someone suddenly opens the door and the light bursts on. Exposing you.

No one was there. No one but you. And there you were, drenched and looking brand new.

"Throw the bags into the canal."

You did.

I went to work, scrubbing everything down. It takes many hours. Bleach has to be poured on the floor and the walls. Outside, I have to hose off the crimson blades. Everything smells strong and I always get a headache afterwards. Even now. But back then, it was worse because I was overcompensating. How much was too much? How little was not enough? So many questions. Some of them didn't even make sense. I never wore a mask. I should have.

When the sun started to rise, I climbed out the window, panting and itching all over. I couldn't scratch, my gloved hands were covered with bleach.

"Hey. Scratch my nose."

You cocked your head. A bone popped. "Why?"

"Because it's itchy, dumbass. I can't touch my face."

"Whatever." You did it fast and violently. My nose stung for a few minutes.

A muttered "Thanks". We stared at each other, not really blinking or thinking. Until the sunlight made me squint.

We opened our backpacks. Fresh clothes were folded inside. I washed and ironed everything. Blood stained jeans and ripped jackets would go in your special box. You kept it under a loose floorboard in your room. All of our work clothes were in there. I called it stupid - that box was nothing but a bunch of evidence just waiting to be found. You called it fun - that box was full of memories for you. Your own personal scrapbook.

So we changed and I checked and re-checked the house.

"You're such an OCD little shit."

"Shut up, Jack." My voice echoed out the open window. I checked for drops of blood and scraps of flesh. Nothing. But just to be safe, check again.

"Come on!"

"SHUT UP!" Holy shit, you were so annoying. You still are. I sprinted down the stairs, skipping three steps at a time. Fell once, banging my knee into brittle flooring that broke under me. I popped back up and kept running. You kept yelling at me.

"Come on, come on!"

It was a call to fun, like you were beckoning me out onto the ice. Ice skates on our feet, the air cold and still. It was a call to order, your words full of command. Like you were a king and I was some right hand man. I could never tell your true intentions. "Fun" masked your real self, your center. But in my mind I kept repeating the same old creed. That you were actually quite warm inside - warm and wet and boiling with blood. How unfortunate that you are actually quite cold inside - cold and dry and stagnant. You are ice and you are trapped. You never broke out of that frozen prison.

I, on the other hand, broke through many things. Rickety old doors and half-shattered windows. I landed softly in the grass. My body ached and my head was pounding. The smell of bleach bounced around my nostrils.

"Come on, you clumsy shit. The sun's rising, it's time to go home."

"Yeah, I guess." I shrugged and looked up at you. "Another good night."

Smile. "Another _great _night."

You pulled me to my feet. Everything about you smelled fresh. Like newly cut grass after a rainstorm. And the way the water dripped down your bangs, into your eyes, down your nose. All of it reminded me of paint. Your body sliding into the soil, being sucked up by the thick, brown roots. Shards of blue glass melted in your eyes. I looked and saw you disappear, a painting beneath the sun. And I blinked and tried to scream and the smell of bleach stung my brain. Too clean, it was all too clean! You were surgical. I wanted to hide in the Earth.

And never come out, because we are not human.

Because we are monsters.

Because I will always be Hiccup.

Because you will always be Jack.

So I screamed.

More like, I'm screaming now. Because that was just a dream, a memory that haunts me in my sleep. Your words still echo in my mind. "What… makes… us… human?" Nothing. Nothing makes us human. Birds do not question whether or not they are birds. Roses do not ask if they are flowers. And I have become just that, an "I". Nothing more, nothing less. Just a floating consciousness that feels constantly disconnected. I am out of body sometimes, just watching this Hiccup person as he works day in and day out. I sit and watch myself from afar, almost like I am two different people. But I know who I am. I just feel… unreal. My sense of justice is its own entity. It paces up and down this "I". Gives me headaches. I want to seek revenge. Hiccup wants to look normal. That is all Hiccup wants, to be accepted and loved by people. By the foster parents that feared him and the biological father that abandoned him. Turned his back and said "You are not my son." Hiccup is a moron. I know this because I am Hiccup. And you are Jack. You have become this third person to me. Separate, and cold. Still, I love you. I always have. We live this life together. I am me. You are you. Hiccup is Hiccup. Jack is Jack. And we will always be monsters.


	2. Chapter 2

Here we are, in the present.

My eyes snap open, then shut again. Just a dream. I take a deep breath and tuck my hands behind my head. Clumps of knotted hair feel sweaty against my palms. Fan blades spin overhead. I'm lying in bed, the one with the brass bars and cotton sheets. They're cold; so is Jack's pillow. Sighing, I roll over and look at the empty space that should be full of him. His pale back should be rising in the dark, bones jutting out like a razor's edge. He's too skinny. I tell him that all the time. I imagine the ridge of vertebrae popping out, looking rather removable. Bottle caps tempt me. There's that satisfying sound when they come off and hit the table. Jack's spine would come off easily. That's why I trace it with my finger and kiss every bump. But right now, I am spineless.

The alarm clock blinks red. Three in the morning. He jolted awake about an hour ago. I was too tired to ask what was wrong, so I drifted back into sleep. And that dream haunted me again. Damn the nighttime. It's never nice to me — it's full of fury. Another sigh. I notice the light under the bathroom door. What the hell is he doing in there? Black shadows flit across the tile. I look back up at the ceiling, and tap my fingers against the cold pillow. The indentation still holds, a life cast of the back of his skull.

Don't be nosey, Hic. Just let him hide out with the sinks and bathtubs. He's always been like this. From the time we were children to now. When we were young, he would hide in our falling apart treehouse, these waves of sadness coming and pulling him out to sea. And for a week or two, he was lost to me.

I guess tonight marks the beginning of low tide. Wonderful. I roll my eyes and immediately regret it. No, I should be supportive. That's the right thing to do. The bed squeaks when I get up, groaning and dragging my feet across the floor. Shit, this room is cold. Goosebumps sting my legs as I shuffle to the door, my teeth chattering.

"Uh, Jack?"

Nothing but the A/C slipping through the vent. Figures.

"Jack… I'm not stupid. I know you're in there."

"Just leave me alone."

Another eye roll. "Don't be idiotic. I know how much you hate being alone." I jiggle the handle. "Let me in. I can…"

Say it, Hiccup, you selfish ass.

"I can help you."

He laughs. "Whatever."

"No, really." My fists curl against the door. "Let. Me. In. You need a voice of reason when you get like this."

"And you're that voice?"

"Obviously." I press my ear into the painted metal, and hear his breath beyond me. "You're not the most logical person. I am. Chaos needs order. Nyx needs Hemera."

"The hell is Nyx and Hemera?"

I try really hard not to roll my eyes. "The goddesses of night and day, you moron. Read a book." I fail.

"Enough of your 'read a book', special snowflake shit." He's talking through gritted teeth, I can tell. He's also been crying.

A small smile on my face. "You know me, Jack. I don't think anyone's special."

"I know you don't." His voice fades out. I know what he's thinking about. His foster father filled his head with ideas. Ideas of a man in the moon, a purpose, a reason for existing. I'll never make fun of him for that. The Man in the Moon is like a god to him. North used to say that Manny had a plan for Jack. For everyone. I've heard of alternative religions, but Jack's is new to me — something that I keep quiet about. I don't want to tell him that Neil Armstrong stepped all over his god; shoved his boot in Manny's face. So I'll let Jack think that he's special. That he's somehow human.

I rest my forehead on the flaking metal. Behind the door, he's breathing heavy. I hear his chest shudder. Those bones are un-hideable; un-acceptable. Plenty of "un" words.

My voice is soft. "Jack, open the door. Tell me what's wrong. Did you have a bad dream?"

"Maybe…"

"Tell me about it."

He takes a deep breath. I sink lower, balancing on the balls of my feet as I listen. I'm freezing in my boxers with the dragons all over them. I wish their flames would spring to life and thaw my frozen ass.

It's hard to hear him.

"So, I was skating on a pond. It was winter. I was alone, just skating and having fun, like I always do. I remember… it was so detailed. Like, even my breath was crystallizing in the air. And then someone — I couldn't make out their face — started breaking the ice with a sledgehammer. I asked them why they were trying to kill me, and they said… 'Because it's fun.' And then I fell in. I died."

I wait a few moments before responding. "Well, obviously not, since you're still here."

He growls and hits the door. "Don't be a jackass."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood with this… this raw comedic-ness." I grin at the empty air. "You have to admit, I am pretty hilarious."

"You're a know-it-all asshole. That's what you are. I'm sorry I told you anything."

Now I feel bad. "I didn't mean it. Sorry."

"It's okay."

My face is burning. I hate these awkward exchanges. When Jack gets all moody and I'm forced to break and bend. To his needs, to his wants. He forces me into rigidity. Conforming sucks. To society; to your blue eyed lover that walks along a razor's edge.

Jack and I have known each other since our instincts first awoke. We met in elementary school, two foster kids that both understood the desire to kill. It was a simple meeting.

School hallway full of muted light, those cream colored walls and shiny floors. I've always been skinny and small. Bullies took advantage of my thin arms. They would pin me against the wall and beat the shit out of me. But Jack rescued me. Took a ballpoint pen and stabbed the bully in the arm. We looked at each other. I saw myself. And we understood.

That was it. Because we had seen the thing that creeps around the soul. It's hard to hide. Sometimes it comes out the eyes, like a creature within your own skin. And your skin is itching because it doesn't fit. Jack looked at me and said, "Get up, bitch." I took his hand. The end.

Now he's my bitch as well. I see him at his weakest. It's rather tempting, to be honest. Hurting him could be — as he puts it — fun. But you really shouldn't, Hiccup.

That's our relationship. A constant holding back that makes us both crazy.

The door creaks open behind me. "Hey… Bitch… Get in here and make me feel better already. Prove that you're my 'voice of reason'."

"Challenge accepted."

My forehead is stuck to the cold metal. Glued there for a second with sweat, even though it feels like negative numbers in this room. These are my pre-sex shivers. I try to be logical about the world, but this can never be logical. Jack's frozen body makes me feel alive. More alive than when I'm killing, or flying in my 1992 Sukhoi SU-26, my trick plane that I wasted thousands of dollars on. It sits in a hangar most of the time. Still, I love it.

Not as much as I love Jack.

The lock clicks. Smiling, I open the door. Fluorescent lights attack me from all sides. And he's standing there, all linear lines and pale colors. Stark naked. He's always slept in the nude. Stupid prick with his playful fingers and lack of shame. Any other night, he'd be chasing me around the bedroom or playing some lame prank. Like drawing on my face with sharpie… wait a second.

I look away. Only get to stare at him for a moment. Because the bathroom mirror shows me my face, freckled, sunburnt, and sporting a pink heart on the right cheek. Holy shit, it's huge. Bubbly with one of those marks that's supposed to represent reflecting light. It's even got two eyes and a mouth… someone help me. I look back at him, trying to kill him with my eyes.

"Are you shitting me?"

He grins, twisting a pink pen with both hands. "I think it looks lovely. Really brings out your eyes."

He comes closer, footsteps barely audible. Feet so light, body so lithe. He moves like a ghost. Pen drops. Fingers trace the lines across my body. Heart beneath sternum beneath calloused tips. Brush a piece of hair from my face, and let it fall right back. I'm looking at him through a veil of brown.

"I have work in like four hours."

A shrug. "So what? That dull office could do with a little fun." He waggles his eyebrows in that way that makes me melt. "And you look adorable, that's all that matters. Just make sure your coworkers keep their hands to themselves. Or I'll have to cut them off."

"You're a psycho."

Another shrug. "Who cares?"

"I guess no one does." Front teeth run over my lip. The tingling prompts me to touch. His face. His hands. His body. I can still see the shadow of fear in his eyes.

"Why do you look at me like that, Hic? So serious. Such a Debbie Downer."

I roll my eyes. "Your metaphors suck. And a minute ago, you were moping around, thinking about some bad dream. This _is_ a serious moment, it calls for serious expressions."

"No…no it doesn't." Fingers are threaded through my hair. I stand motionless. "I'm living in the moment. I'm not sad right now."

"Well I can't help it if you're bipolar."

"Neither can I."

We stare at each other. Whoever blinks first loses.

I do not win. Damn.

Still, I can't help but laugh. It creeps up my throat and falls all over him. He laughs back. We're laughing at each other. At first, it's low and I think of cats. Then it grows and it's bouncing all over the ceiling. Our mouths get closer under the greasy fluorescents. There are flies trapped up there. I glimpse their dead bodies before going in. Full force. We kiss, and feel all the layers of the night. Colors, too.

First layer: onyx. Hard and black, and sinking. Like a stone in the middle of a river. It's that pit in my stomach that I don't understand. Sometimes, I want to throw up. Other times, I love it and crave it so bad. Want sitting inside me like a tumor. He makes me hot and heavy. I feel my bones stiffen. Everything goes rigid, and my member goes hard. Pulsating behind my boxers that Jack slips off with… his toes? He's so damn nimble it's creepy. Leg stretched, a dancer with lean muscles and body parts that act like other body parts. He pulls them down to my knees. His hand grabs at my skin. It hurts, those fingernails are jagged. For a moment, we are statues. I am made of marble. And this kiss is from the inside of a refrigerator. But then he holds my dick and rubs it slowly.

He pulls back, barely, just to whisper to me. "Relax, Hic."

Our lips are connected by strings of spit. He licks the pink heart on my cheek and laughs. I nod. He goes to work.

It's overwhelming, getting a kiss and a handjob at the same time. Because I have a limited capacity for feeling. I am a cup. Drops fill me up. And when it runneth over, I am lost.

Second layer: velvet. Crushed and deep and smooth. He twists me like he twists his knives. Still, so conscious. So gentle. I'm easily aroused and he knows it. Pressed softly against the medicine cabinet, I moan and expose my neck. He sucks on my throat, one hand clenched against the wall. The other pumping, faster and faster.

It all trickles down my spine, through my nervous system. A cracked-egg kind of feeling atop my skin. When he breaks away, he takes his breath with him. He tastes like ice and cigarettes.

"Hold on a little longer." Eyes stay on me as he goes down. Break contact and begin. With his face crushed against me and my dick deep in his throat. He goes in. No reservations. I start to moan, moan, moan.

Oh shit, oh shit. Is this part of being human? Every time, I ask the same stupid question. Even though we've done this before. Before we were both feet in, in this life together. Together we've grown up and move to an apartment in the city. To a city life so different than the suburbs. Suburbs are full of fake people that I want to turn into masterpieces. Masterpieces full of blood and dead flesh. Flesh cold, hot, stale, fresh. Fresh like flowers and fruit.

Jack brings me flowers when I have a bad day. They are always calla lilies.

This layer always brings me back, to places I've forced myself to forget. Sunlit afternoons in our tree house. Moonlit mornings in my bedroom, when Jack used to sneak into my house at night. Now we live in the same place. There's no suspense. I need… I crave suspense. So I force myself deeper into him. He doesn't even gag.

He raises his head. "Go on, Hic."

I come all over his chest. We leave the bathroom, kissing hard. My feet moving backwards. Both of us falling into bed, not bothering to clean our skin.

And I guess we forget about sex, because now he's dozing off on my chest. Fine with me.

We arrive at the third layer: darkness. Just impenetrable darkness, the core of night. I can feel Jack's core beating beneath his ribcage. I curl around those erupting bones and hold him tight, hoping that the nightmares go away.

I only hope. Never pray.

Because God would never listen to the inhuman.

"I want to be normal," is what I say when I get ready for work. Jack laughs at me from the kitchen table. He's sitting with one leg tucked under his ass, the other bent beneath his chin, supporting a chipped china bowl full of Coco Puffs. The milk drips down his chin.

"Screw being normal." He licks the spoon and taps it against his teeth. "Stay home today, be with me."

"No. Someone has to make the money."

His laugh sends shivers up my spine. "Nice burn. But I'm never getting a job, you know that. There's no point in trying to shame me into it."

"I know."

Standing in front of the window, I try to fix my tie. Rectangles of light make me squint. Those damn blinds are never shut all the way.

"Come here, bitch. My bowl is empty. I need more Coco Puffs."

"Get them yourself." I say it all through gritted teeth. "I'm kinda busy at the moment."

I hear him sigh, the chair scratch the tile. "Don't move."

His arms wind around my chest, fingers feeling the freshly ironed shirt. Each button and missed hole. In that nimble way that still amazes me, he ties the fabric perfectly. He smooths it flat. It's almost perfect. Almost. Until I look down and see the bloody mess in the sink.

I don't look down much. Eyes are usually on the sky or rolling around my head. But now I see the glistening chrome and the blood spiraling into the drain. Some of it is stuck to the edge in dried clumps. Slick and black.

I elbow Jack. "The hell is this?"

"Oh, um, nothing much."

"Looks like something to me. Did you finally chop up our jerky landlord?"

He laughs into my neck. He's up on tiptoes, running his fingers along my collarbone. "I wish. But no… His cat, you know, the one that always scratches you? He was out in the hall the other day, so I nabbed him."

I blink a couple times. Let the words sink in. "Wait… You killed his cat?"

"Yeah. It was annoying and it hurt you. No one will miss it."

Looking him in the eye is not an option. I shrug his hands away. Picking up the pair of dull scissors from the countertop, I cut the tie off and throw it into the sink. There is nothing to say. I never look back, not even once, slamming the door behind me.

I walk down the stairs, skipping two at a time. And behind me, everything looks normal. Can't get the image of diced cat out of my head. Or my sink. But to the neighbors I see down the hall, I am normal. Jack is too. They smile and wave. Wish I didn't have to wave back.

Jack is the stay-at-home sweetheart that everyone loves. I am the hard working stoic. Together, our mask is thin. Almost to the breaking point. People could see through it if they stared long enough. We're a dirty window that's been cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. Until you can see the silhouettes move across the pane. Like puppets. Don't look at us.

But when we are apart, Jack and I couldn't be any more normal. He lives at home, walks the halls in his fuzzy house shoes and babysits the neighbor kids. I leave at seven, take the bus, and arrive at a grey office building. The windows are always blinded. I work in tech support for some phone company I always forget the name of. Wow, what a prestigious job. Not much to say about this place. The walls are square and the people are square and the cubicles are square. And I wear a headset and say things like, "Good morning, how may I help you?", in this false voice that makes me shriek internally. When customers are assholes, I am required to be a nicehole. Smiling like those fake suburban neighbors.

Today is no different. I'm an average guy making an average living. A square sheet of gauze covers my right cheek. Damn heart.

The intern that brings people coffee gasps. "Hiccup, what happened to your face? Were you in some kind of accident?"

Nosey piece of shit. I nod, smiling. "I slipped in the shower. But I'm fine."

What a terrible excuse.

He smiles back. Typical. "Well, that's good. Hope you feel better."

And then he turns the corner. I roll my eyes. Never said I was sick, so why did he feel the need to say that? Told you these people were squares. Walking through the maze of offices, I try to avoid people at all costs. Sitting alone, eating alone, being alone, has always come naturally to me.

Jack doesn't count. He is a requirement for life.

Sigh. I stare at the computer screen. Sigh again. The desk is a mess, covered in stacks of paper and folders full of things I'll never read. My headset is muted. I really couldn't care less today. I take out a pencil and start sketching. Jack's eyes, Jack's face. Everything goes back to him. Maybe I'll draw some not safe for work stuff. Like him sprawled across the bed. Like those eyes that look at me in the dark. Full of heat, connected to a head, connected to a body that pulses. And reminds me of a heart.

But wait, I'm mad at him. He killed that cat, cut it up and shoved it down the garbage disposal. I can't excuse that. Sure, it scratched my arms and face. Jack would bandage me up whenever it did. But it didn't deserve to die. Ever. The bloody chunks looked like raw chicken in the sink. Red and wet and sticking to the edges…

"Damnit." I lean forward, covering my mouth with both hands. Sweat drips down my temple, pounding starting in the middle of my brain. Why would he do that? He knows how I feel about cats.

That image is still fresh. It's almost too much. If I close my eyes, the smell is still there, something I never noticed before.

"Haddock, you sleeping or working?"

"Huh?" Blinking hard, I see my boss leaning over the cubicle wall. If there was ever a person I did not associate with a face, it would be them. What do they even look like? My boss is my boss. They are not human to me. I rub my eyes and nod.

"Yes… Yes, I'm working."

"Really? I couldn't tell?" Fingernails tap the wall. "Stop being a lazy ass, Haddock. Or you won't have a job."

"Fine."

They walk away. I sigh and do nothing. Work has no meaning today. I can't stop thinking about that damn cat. Someone else walks by my cubicle. Footsteps, heartbeats. Someone taps a pen against their desk. Computers hum, projectors drone. Dozens of people talk and pretend to be happy. I keep thinking about hearts, which leads to thoughts of Jack's body sweating in the sheets under a fat moon that rises outside our window. And the moon is a heart that beats deep within the sky. Just another infinite loop. I start tapping my pen and my foot, staring at a blurring screen. It's happening. The need is there, rushing into my head. I'm not supposed to have this desire. It's supposed to be a calling. My acts of justice for those who receive none. I'm not supposed to want it this bad.

Jack does it for fun.

I do it for justice… Don't I?

This place makes me crazy. It's been far too long. I'm sweating through my clothes. The A/C is hot against my skin. I undo the top button, then another. The screen goes black and I see myself. Looking afraid.

No. Stay calm. Even as the heat rises and the beating gets louder and louder. Even as they pound their keyboards, each finger pounding into my head.

"I can't take this."

Talking to myself isn't normal. I should really stop. But right now, I swear I'm dying. No one looks up from their desks as I run past. They are pieces of a machine that has no purpose. The bathroom is empty. The mirror is empty too. Which I like, because I can imagine my own little world. My reflection is from another dimension, staring back at me. Bangs dripping with water from the sink. It's running on hot. A nice change from the refrigerator I live in. My cheeks are reddening. Whenever I paint, I get it all over my face. Forehead pressed against the mirror, past paintings come to mind.

The one of Jack lying upside down in bed. I stood on a ladder to sketch that one. It came out nice. His skin watercolored and translucent, eyes glistening under the fluorescents. One of my best paintings. There were others covered in oil and tempera. All of Jack or something cold.

In the mirror, I am a different person. Freckles brighter than ever. The world sharpening around me. There is another figure in my masterpiece. Who?

"Oh, hey, Hiccup."

It's that intern. He closes the stall behind him. I thought this bathroom was empty.

Might as well be nice. "Hi. How's it going?"

He shrugs. "All right. The boss was chewing me out, but whatever. I deserved it." He laughs and I want to cry. Never has anyone sounded so defeated.

"No, you didn't."

"Didn't what?" He's preoccupied with the paper towel dispenser. I don't have the heart to tell him it's empty.

"You didn't deserve to be chewed out. You're an intern, you work hard."

And you're weak. Our boss is strong. It's the strong's job to protect the weak.

I grit my teeth so hard they hurt. I'm washing my hands over and over again. He looks at me, like a deer in the headlights.

"I, uh… Thanks."

"It's fine."

That has always been my response to thank you's. He smiles. I only see it in the mirror. I won't look back at him. Sometimes reality is better viewed through a filter. This mirror shows me an opposite world. If I turn around, he might actually be frowning.

The door smacks the wall, accompanied by the sound of metal hitting tile. It sets my teeth on edge. The intern flinches. In walks our boss. Everything about them is big. Not fat, just big. Big footsteps that echo, big eyes that watch and read and examine. They see my dripping reflection and frown. I grin back.

"Haddock." They say, nodding in my direction.

"Boss." A return nod.

This infinite loop of gestures is irritating. Where is the meaning, the emotions? It's like we're using the Shannon-Weaver Model of communication. Everything so mathematical, devoid of humanity. But then again, I don't even consider myself human.

"So, you're busy gossiping with coworkers instead of working?"

My eyes widen. For a second, I think they're talking to me, but then I hear the intern's squeaky voice.

"N-No, I'm just… I had to use the restroom. Sorry, Boss."

They sigh and shake their head. I take a deep breath, knowing what's coming. "Typical excuse for someone like you. You were hiding out, that's what you were doing."

The intern shrinks beneath them.

"Don't lie."

Further into the floor. Pounded by a hammer.

"I see the way you handle confrontation, like a child, that's how you handle it. And this isn't elementary school!"

Spit flies and his face is covered in it. His knees are shaking. I watch him curl up into himself. A candle burning in its own flame. My ankle is itchy. I shove my hand into my sock, looking for the source.

"This is a company with deadlines to meet, so I don't have time for your inefficiency!"

Accusatory finger. Eyes full of flame. Have you ever watched a wolf stare down its prey?

"You're lucky I don't fire your—"

Without warning, they've stopped. A completely cut off sentence that dangles in midair. I'll grab it and twist it and flush it down the toilet. Because the intern has now sunk to the floor. He's trembling and sitting in a puddle of his own piss. Because the spit is blood and the accusatory finger is convulsing on the tile. And I am still looking at the mirror. My reflection has thrown a scalpel into my boss. The scalpel I keep in my sock just in case. Precision is key. It hits my boss in the throat. Imbeds itself into their jugular. They fall to the floor, shocked. Of course. And I stand at the mirror, impressed that I was able to throw it backwards.

They're still alive. Of course. So I turn around and watch them struggle on the floor. Flashbacks of all those times I've watched people from above. Standing over them as they writhe in their own blood. Like I am flying in the clouds and they are the lowly creatures of the earth. Unfit. Unjust. As if I was one to judge them. My boss is going into shock. I recognize the symptoms.

One. The rapid breathing. It comes in the form of a snot-nosed adult. Shoulders quake and they cannot blink.

Two. Cold hands. Jack's have always been cold. But I can see the difference in their palms. Sudden whiteness. Swathed in chalk or bright printer paper.

Three. Weak pulse. My ears are attuned to that kind of thing. Jack used to call them supersonic. But no, I'm just good at narrowing.

I squint in the dusty light that throws our shadows all over the walls. There is a concept called thrownness. It refers to the circumstances you are born into. The life that accepts your wet, naked body because nothing else will. Mine is full of pastel houses that are painted blood-red on the inside. And mean faces with mean mouths. Spinning knives and two shadows for family that touched me with two fingers. Those fingers shook. My throwness is the product of a hopeless pitcher. I drag myself towards the plate even though I am far in the outfield. So I accept it and look down at this person.

This man, I realize, as I look at his face. He's in the men's bathroom after all. Our society labels people like that, don't they? Never been one for labels. I place my foot atop his chest and press down. Hard.

He gasps. A little life inside him squirms.

"Not so big and scary now, are you?"

The bathroom is silent. I swear he mouths, "No." But I don't care. I do my work in the bright, obvious light. No romantic full moon in the sky. No fat rays full of mystery that make me think I am actually special. This isn't something to be proud of. Or to look at in awe. Blood does not splatter all over a pristine canvas. It covers grimy walls that haven't been cleaned. It mixes with urine and vomit on the floor. The intern is puking all over himself. My ironed shirt is ruined. That stupid ass house was a constructed dream. Reality shows me the evidence and the witness and crime. Thousands of invisible fingerprints on this man. I can't kill an innocent. The intern must live.

So none of that was real, was it?

That mini-world we created together. Our doll house feels faint. I feel faint. Our victims are forgettable. Can't remember their faces or their names. Was it all just pretend? No, we've killed a dozen times after. Just not like this. In the light of day. Daylight shows you what's real. Phantoms fade into the night. And when you're young, you welcome the sun. Because it scared the monsters away. But now, it scares my dreams away. Jack's words seem foolish now.

His smile ate up his entire face. "You know, Hic, it's almost like we live in a TV show. We do all these things and never get caught. Just like those people on TV."

What a joke.

Still, I pick my boss up and smash his face into the urinal. Might as well. I'm already screwed. Bones break into seashell dust. Think of paint granules that fly up when you blow on a painting. Don't inhale, it could be lead based. Just keep shoving his face down. The screams are shoved down as his jaw shatters. I cringe. This is all so messy. The scalpel is an instrument of beauty. Precision and detail with my tongue caught between teeth. Now it's nothing. Just another weapon that will be the focus of my murder trial. Murder of my boss, the man without a name or face. His face is pulp now. Like when paint clumps and hardens and swirls around in dirty water. Paint can be revolting. Not as revolting as sliced and diced cat.

Growling, I shove him down one last time, dropping the fractured head to the ground. It hits tile; crunch, crunch, crunchZ heavy as his footsteps. Head to toe, my body is blood. I look sideways at the intern. He's hysterical.

"Tell them it was me."

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

I say it again. "Tell them it was me. Don't let anyone blame you. You don't deserve that." I kick him across the temple before he can answer. Now no one will think it was him.

A moment of silence. Take a deep breath, Hiccup, see what I've done. I cover my mouth with both hands. The smell comes now. Cold and sticky in my head. Breathing through my mouth, I pull the scalpel free and slip it back into my sock. It stabs straight through my skin. Don't care. It's time to leave now. Run and never turn my head. They will all be watching. Let's see what happens, shall we?

When they see all the colors.


	3. Chapter 3

A minor detour. Down the backalleys, into our past. These office halls remind me of the twisting bike path that led down to the water's edge. A few miles from our neighborhood, there was a lake. We would go there when the world became too close. Late middle school. After class, when the sun was being dragged down to the horizon. It was autumn and the leaves floated atop the still surface. If I stuck my face in the water, half under, half over, it looked like the sun was being eaten. Alive. Whole. By blood red fangs that rose up out of the water. I held my breath. Seeing how long I could go before my lungs burned. Nothing but blue around. Growing darker and darker as light faded. Bubbles escaped my lips. I could feel the oxygen-starved blood stinging my insides. Fingers shaking. I blinked. I thought I saw a shadow in the dark. 

I was staring into the abyss. I felt it staring back.

A voice came through, muffled. "Hic… H—" 

I look up. Through layers of light and darkness. A fish looking up out of its bowl. I was slipping away. Out of body, out of mind. It came again. Louder this time.

"Hic… Hiccup!"

What? Leave me alone.

"Hiccup… The hell?!"

Yeah, hell is above the water. There was no point in going up. Life was up there, along with guilt and doubt and millions of eyes. Watching. So I decided to stay. Watch my brown hair flail around me. My limbs sinking into the depths. My fingers, stones. My feet, bricks. I let myself fall into warm, wet arms that pulled me deeper. I took a gulp and everything was quiet. For once in my life. No screaming, no cutting or scratching. Death sounds so loud. But not at that moment. It was silent and soft. Smiling, I closed my eyes.

But you grabbed me. Your cold, unfeeling hands gripped my arm. Why? I wanted to die, you stupid bastard. You saved me anyway. 

I break the surface, gasping. We were close to shore and I could tell you were dragging me. Pebbles and pieces of broken glass lay beneath me. My world was blurry. The sky looked so beautiful, fractured into a hundred pieces. You kneeled over me and pushed on my sternum. Dumbass. You were doing it completely wrong. If I could have rolled my eyes, I would have. But you were trying. It's the thought that counts. And after a few seconds, I started coughing up water and convulsing on the shore. Rolling onto my stomach, I threw it all up. Underwater, it was all so beautiful. Nothing touched me, yet everything was touching me at once. I was trapped and free at the same time. It was amazing. But then you saved me and life came rushing back. Cold air that made me shiver. Sharp rocks that cut my back. Blood that smelled metallic and made me sick. So messy. So gross and revolting and disappointing. I wanted the sensory deprivation. I welcomed it. You took it from me. Way to go, Jack.

You were crying behind me. "W-Why would you do that? Why would you try and leave me?" All snot-nosed, your fists shaking in the sand. You looked like a kicked puppy.

I shook my head and shrugged. "I… don't… know."

It was hard to speak and breathe.

I watched your face collapse. Tears gathered at the end of your nose, your chin. "Screw you! Just screw you, Hic!"

And then you tackled me and wrapped yourself around my bones. Cheek pressed against my spine. There was a raw feeling, like vegetables touching in the freezer. Your tears ran down my skin. I wanted to crawl out of it and return to the lake. But I couldn't abandon you. I could never do that. So I let you cry and kiss the freckles on my back. When I fell asleep, the sun was gone. I watched it die. And that was the last thing I saw that night.

Back to reality. Because that lake is in the past. These office halls are nothing like the bike path. 

I'm sprinting down the stairs. Floor after floor of identical steps. Too plastic to be real. No one ever walks up to their office. I should be able to get out of here without being seen. The stairwell is white all over, save for a few signs and fire alarm that screams red. I leave bloody handprints on the rails. I'm not even trying to save myself. The cops will find me no matter what. So what's the point?

I stick out like a sore thumb. White shirt covered in blood. My face, my arms, my fingers. Everything is tainted. No one saw me slip out of the bathroom. I ran past those downturned heads and slipped inside. Unnoticed. What a bunch of idiots. As I shut the door, I hear the screams.

Someone must have walked into the bathroom.

"Oh my God!"

"What? Oh my God. Oh my God!"

"Someone call 911!"

That's all I heard. Then I ran.

I'm skipping steps and looking over my shoulder. This is unlike me, to be so out of control. Sweating through my clothes. Cold and hot at the same time. It's all in my eyelashes. Wipe my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. I grab the rail and damnit, damnit, damnit—

I'm slipping, legs splayed out. I look like a broken ballerina. I grit my teeth and throw myself forward. I jump down to the fourth floor. Almost there. Above, the voices are starting. Doors are opening. Look up for second and see them there. One never-ending square staircase and a dozen faces. All staring down, searching for someone. But they don't know they're searching for me. I press myself against the wall, breathing hard. If I run fast enough, they won't be able to recognize me. Then again, it doesn't even matter. My DNA is all over that crime scene. Men in blue will knock on my door sooner or later. Because the illusion is fading. Just like that house. Our apartment will soon be empty, the doors covered in yellow tape. My dreams never last long.

Take a deep breath and plunge back into reality. Like when Jack pulled me to the surface. Lights flicker overhead —my cue to leave. I go three steps at a time and swerve around every corner. Now I'm just knocking into things. Banging my shoulder against the walls, tripping down the stairs. Red fire alarms. Yellow stripes and arrows and lights that bounce everywhere. Colors.

Crimson. Blood stuck to inches and feet. Yards, too. I feel sick and dirty. Fire extinguishers are red and should never be touched. The intern's eyes were red as he cried. Lips, post-bite, are red and burning. Like mine are now. There are cuts up and down my arms.

Yellow. Arrows pointing to the exit. Racing around the white concrete, I run my hands over the paint that still smells sharp. They redid everything last week, made this place shiny and new. It's funny. A fresh coat of paint can fix the cracks, the holes, the scuffs. But only for a while. I flick a piece off and watch it fall. All masks crumble. Touch my face and feel the hardened blood. I flick a piece off and watch it fall. Yeah, everything crumbles. And the yellow light makes it brighter. There is nowhere to hide.

Silver. Rails, of train tracks outside my window. Back home, Jack and I stare at the big, black bodies that come speeding down the tracks, steam pouring out. I cough just thinking about it.

I'm in a coughing fit now. I guess I swallowed wrong. The first floor feels impossible. I touch down and tears prick at my eyes.

"There's someone down there!"

Doors slam.

"Hey! Who is that?"

Like I'm gonna answer. That's a good joke.

One last glance at the staircase. Evidence dances up the floors. I am so screwed. Who cares? I'm more ashamed of the mess. Inside, my organs turn to woodchips. Sawdust makes me choke. Knives cut my brain into slices. Like bread. This… frustration builds inside me. Frustration at my inefficacies. I left blood on the tile. Shining, in your face. And there's flesh stretched across the urinal. Chrome covered in skin and bits of bone and teeth. So messy.

Disgusting.

Puddles of red, brown, yellow. Seeping into the grout. It will probably stain. And no amount of soap will ever get it out. I will be thinking about that for hours.

Dripping.

Strips hanging from the countertop. Pieces of tape waiting to be used. Slow, deliberant. The drips grow and collect at the end of a nose. Except the nose is not really a nose. It is a flap of flesh that bleeds forever. Dew on blades of grass. Blood on the faucet. If I lay down, I would be in a jungle. With metal flowers, bloody waterfalls, air full of heat. It condenses in my lungs.

Dead.

Like my boss. Like me. 

I shake my head. It's time to go. I grab the handle from behind and burst through. Hot sunlight. Fingers clawing my face. I'm stumbling through hazy shapes as the world is broken down into geometrics. The square slabs of concrete. The hexagonal signs telling me to stop. No, you don't tell me what to do. Conformity has been my mantra for too long. I just want them to accept me. Want my father to love me and my foster parents to touch me. For once. With hands that don't tremble like they're touching a rabid dog.

STOP.

No, no, no. I won't listen to you. I rip the gauze off my cheek and keep running. How odd it must look. A great big heart on my face, outlined in another man's blood. Horror movie children would draw something like that. Maybe this is all a movie, a game. Tim Burton might pop out of the garbage can for all I know. And then I'll laugh because it was all a dream. Typically, the norm is this: perfect husband, perfect wife, 2.5 kids and a decent life. With a dog, and maybe a cat. Nice house, nice car. And those perfect people dream of doing things like this. Killing that annoying boss at work, screwing whoever they want, being whoever they want. My norm is quite the opposite. My norm is two imperfect boyfriends struggling with the same thing. For different reasons. And we kill cats and dogs and annoying bosses. And we dream of a nice house, nice car, and 2.5 kids.

They say reality is stranger than fiction. But what constitutes fiction? What does that even mean? For me, fiction is that perfect house and that perfect family. What could be stranger than that?

I'm crying as I run. Just noticed that when I tried to blink. Now the world is in pieces. They're raindrops on the square slabs of concrete. Spotted with chewed-up gum and bits of blood.

People are shouting at me. Yelling mean things and scared things. Words mean nothing right now. Words are just symbols, anyway. Abstract, ambiguous, arbitrary. A bunch of jumbled up sounds have no real value. But we need them to survive. I need words to warn Jack.

Dial the house phone. He doesn't have a mobile.

"They're too much work," he says. "They connect me to the world. Constantly. And if I don't have a phone, then I have an excuse to ignore people."

"But you hate being alone. I know you do."

He stares, and doesn't blink. "Okay, I hate being alone. But if I'm not alone, I can't feel sorry for myself."

"You like feeling sorry for yourself?"

Shrug. "Some people are only happy if they're miserable."

And that's why he doesn't have a mobile.

He lets it ring twice before picking it up. "Hello?"

"Jack?"

"No shit. What's up, Hic?"

I'm running across a backlot. Right behind the local Publix. "Jack listen to me. We have to leave. Now."

"Huh?" He's pouring himself a drink. I recognize the slosh of liquid on ice cubes.

"Pay attention, dumbass. We have to leave. Understand?"

"Wait… What? Why?"

So many stupid questions. His voice is deep and tired. There's a dog crawling out of his throat on its hands and knees. If they had either of those things.

I trip over a broken bottle and growl through clenched teeth. "I swear, if you're drinking yourself into oblivion, I will beat the shit out of you."

He laughs. "So violent. Who pissed in your Cheerios?"

"Stop it! I'm serious. Get what you need and meet me at the train station. Buy two tickets with cash, no credit cards. And just wait for me, okay?"

Silence. I want to ask if he's still there, but there's no breath left. There are empty crates stacked along the wall. A truck is still, the back open. Waiting for its driver. This is how grocery stores get new inventory. I hide behind the crates, trying to catch my breath.

Still no answer. "Jack? Answer me. I'm kind of in a hurry, don't really have time for this."

More pouring. More clinking ice cubes. "Geez, let me process it for a moment. Feels like I'm in a Bourne Identity movie or something. Why the hell do we have to go all undercover? What did you do?"

I inhale. "I screwed up." 

I don't think I'll ever exhale again.

He's gulping down whatever's in that glass. Shh, listen to the neck muscles aligning. Accepting. The way his Adam's apple bobs in time. I can see that pale throat. Almost like he's hiding amongst the crates. Flashes of flesh, thinner than paper. My fingers are tingling. I wish I'd strangled my boss. Because there are no throats to be found. Except mine. I let the itchy fingers rest atop my trachea. Tapping, tapping, tapping.

"Jack."

Gulp, gulp, gulp.

"Jack… Answer me."

He smacks his lips, shakes the glass in front of the phone. "Who'd ya kill?"

How does he know?

My eyes go back and forth. I feel like someone's watching me from all sides, staring straight through me. Watching, staring, watching, staring. It never stops. Those red hexagons are screaming at the air. No one is listening. And now he knows.

Glass hits the kitchen table. "Hiccup! Who did you kill?"

They are everywhere. Red hexagons in my face, my eyes, my mouth. And they slide between my teeth and all I can see is red.

STOP. STOP. STOP.

No. No. No.

There is no one to hold my hand. So I hold my own and shut my eyes.

"Hiccup! Damnit, tell me!"

Yeah, Hiccup, tell him who you murdered in cold blood. No matter how evil he was or how much he deserved it. You still killed a man. Good going, Hiccup. I am so disappointed in you. I wish I could hurt you from inside, punish you for this. Look what you've made of me, Hiccup. I am trapped in a ribcage. Suffocated by a pair of lungs.

But _I__'__m _Hiccup. Right? I would never hurt myself. Right? Fingers tap, tap, tap my trachea. Between slats in the crates, I see the truck. Watching me.

Please, stop it.

"Hiccup! For the love of God, tell me!"

Just. STOP.

"My boss! Okay? I stabbed him in the neck and smashed his face against a urinal." I'm a snot-nosed mess, suddenly aware of everything. "I-I can still see his face… a bloody pulp. So damn messy, how could I leave it that way? I didn't even clean up…"

"Shut up. Don't talk like that. You didn't have time."

Now I'm the one laughing. "You weren't even there. Unless you were invisible."

"Very funny. But seriously, relax. You didn't have time. It's okay. I'll meet you at the train station like you said."

STOP. STOP. The truck is revving. Men are walking and talking in gruff voices. Don't find me. I grit my teeth. "Stop talking to me like that."

"Like what, Hic?"

"Like I'm a child." Choking on your own spit sucks. I swallow and hold my wrist tight. "You're doing that voice, the one you use when you're talking to children. Down on one knee, smiling at them… telling them not to be afraid, that it'll all be okay if you just play a game and have fun."

"This is how I talk to everyone. Chill out."

"Don't patronize me. I'm strong. You hear me, Jack? I'm strong." 

Then why is your voice shaking, Hiccup? 

I hear him breathe, swallow. "I'm not trying to patronize you. Just do what you said, go to the train station."

I nod. Forgetting that he can't see me.

"Hic?"

"Okay, okay. I'll see you there."

I feel stupid. Of course he can't see me through a phone. It's funny, because sometimes he forgets that people can see him. It's so ingrained in his mind. The idea that he's forgettable. So he does stupid things in the light of day. Embarrasses me. Never like this, though. I am the one that ruined everything.

Good going, Hiccup.

"Someone back there?"

Shit, the truck has seen me. Five pairs of eyes turn to look my way. Headlights flash one, two, three times. I feel naked. Like a vegetable in the fridge. Exposed to all those prying eyes. They judge me. Roll me over and whisper.

"Too old."

"Too rotten."

"Was it ever alive?"

Skin itching because it doesn't fit, I run out from behind the crates. Some fall, clattering to the asphalt, splitting and breaking. Makes me think of my boss' face. 

Bone has a particular sound. A primitive sound that has existed forever. When Cain struck Abel and everything shattered. White shards litter the ground. The thirsty ground that drinks up all the blood. And skulls split in two. It's a clean cut. Perfect. My ashtray is half a human head. It sits on the coffee table and scares any guests we have. Not that we have many. They come on weekend nights, ready to pick up their children. Jack the babysitter lets them sit on the stiff, leather couch. Eyes rove across the spotless floor, too-clean rugs and countertops. I know what goes through their heads. Creeping suspicion. It settles behind their nasal passages. That itch you can't scratch. They fidget and wait for their children. Then they see the ashtray full of cigarette butts.

"What is that?"

"Hmm?" Jack appears from behind, holding their kid's hand. "What's what?"

"That ashtray. It looks like…" Nervous laugh. "Nevermind. I must be tired. Thanks again, Jack. Here's your money."

Stupid neighbors. Why don't they say what they mean? Look us in the eyes and let us have it. Tell us that we're sick freaks. I would just smile and think, oh, darling, if only you knew.

If only you knew how fast I could run. They can't look fast enough. I must be a blur of blood and wide eyes. Gone and sprinting down the street. Don't look back, they're watching you. I feel the wires tightening as I breathe. Invisible and cutting into my sides. Nothing can stop me. Except for the red hexagons, appearing fast and out of nowhere.

Wait, wait, wait. Stop signs are supposed to be octagons. I've driven past them a million times. On my way to work, on my way home. These are abominations. I'm seeing things that aren't really there. Invisible trucks and men shouting over the noise of a thousand footsteps. Walking, running, crushing the poor road beneath them. It gets run-over by everyone and everything. Poor thing. It's a doormat. A pushover. Years ago, a man with stoic eyes told me the same thing.

"You're a pushover, son. You deserve what you get."

That was a long time ago. Narrowed dragon-eyes watch me when I sleep. If only he could see me now. Covered in another man's blood. Not my own. Yeah, that's right. I can cause pain. Bullies in the hallway shoved me against the fire extinguisher. My blood stained their fists. Jack licked it off their cold, dead hands, after we were finished with them and the sun was slipping. Like our minds. But I drew blood, too. With pens and number two pencils and scalpels I stole from the biology lab. We used to cut up frogs in there. I never liked that. Poor things. Frogs were just victims of a hit and run. Left out in the road to die. And then they were displayed and torn open by snot-nosed children. The other boys fought over who got to break the jaw. And society calls me sick?

At least my victims are guilty. No one will miss an asshole.

No one will miss you either, Hiccup.

The fake stop signs are laughing at me. They stare at me from across the street. Blurs of cars going by. Blue, green, red, yellow. Something doesn't belong. Primary colors push the inferior race aside. Even art is discriminatory. I am the color green. So is Jack. We live next to our red and blue neighbors.

Train stations have always excited me. They embody beginnings and endings. People come home after months, sighing in relief and hugging loved ones. People come home after years, trying to remember what childhood was like. People come home after decades, wondering why the world changes so much. And people leave, too. People run from memories. People burst out of their cages and shake the dirt off their boots. People go on adventures and change their world. Train stations are there for both. 

Coming.

Going.

They accept and they throw aside. Jack would laugh and call them bipolar. Like him. I would nod and call them human. Unlike us.

It is empty when I arrive. Out in the open air, dry leaves tumble across the concrete. Full of silence and cicadas. The white pillars are scuffed along the bottom. Cat scratches and knife marks and sloppily carved names. There is a heart engraved in the plaster. Deep and deliberate. Jack put it there a few months ago.

A cool evening. Violet clouds and an orange sun that looked faker than my smile. I call that day a pop-up kind of day. When everything looks unreal and you're afraid to touch the flowers. They might break beneath your fingertip. I was afraid to touch him. Myself. The white pillars and the leaves as thin as toilet paper.

So I paced back and forth, whistling and watching him work.

I rolled my eyes at him. "Really? Now we're a pair of high school lovers?"

His laugh bounced all over. "Don't be such a downer. This is fun." He dug the switchblade deep, tongue caught between his teeth. "And it will be here forever."

"Unlike us."

"You're being a downer again."

"My apologies." Sighing, I sat beside him. "That heart isn't even straight."

"Neither are we, dumbass." He stuck his tongue out at me and smiled.

And because he looked so breakable, I didn't punch him. Even though my fingers itched and that smile made me flinch. My skin crawled beneath the burning sun, melting like paint. I wouldn't hit him. So I did the next best thing.

I shut my eyes tight and kissed him hard on the mouth, body tilted. The whole world going vertical as I fell in. Into him. Into that messed up relationship I knew would never work. I've been falling into it for years. Over and over again. Don't let anybody stop me. Jack and I were made for each other. I know, it sounds corny. But it's true. Just hear me out. I was made in the womb that died soon after. Stitched together by two brave people. Braver than I'll ever be. And when I came out, my father was disappointed.

"Look at those scrawny arms and legs, those weak shoulders. Raise it, try to make it better. Nothing works. It's a pushover, a child. Quick, give it up before its weakness taints me."

I was passed around from house to house. Older siblings used me as their punching bag, so I was passed around again. Until they gave me to faceless people that treated me like a ghost. Not full enough to be a real person. Not empty enough to be invisible. But almost.

I guess I don't really have an excuse for why I kill people. My childhood was sad and lonely, so what? Plenty of foster kids grow up to be normal. But wait...wait, there was something else. Wasn't there? That thing I saw in the darkness. Hiding amongst the trees and raking its claws down the trunks. A black evening, no stars, no moon. Just that monster waiting for me. It grinned at me. It reached for me. And I went willingly. Yellow eyes swallowed me whole.

I asked, "What's your name?"

It said, "Night Fury."

That night feels more like a dream. It comes to me in fragments. Strung out over months and years. Will it ever make sense?

Whoa, come back to reality, Hiccup. In the present, the train station is still empty. No one comes here anymore. Tracks are old and worn. Leaves keep spiraling. And the train that stops here has long since been replaced. By better tracks. Better cars, all sleek and shiny on the underground. There is a ticket vending machine plugged into the wall. How impersonal. At least there is no one around to ask questions.

Run my fingers over the peeling paint, numbers no longer there. Half a five, one-third of a two. This is what happens when you push something for too long. It just gives out. Sure, it still works, but now it is a shell. An anonymous ghost. You have to guess what it's true identity is.

"About time, slowpoke."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was running for my life. Did you use cash like I said?"

"Of course. You're lucky these things even take cash."

"Yes, I am lucky. Aren't I?" My voice is dripping with sarcasm. Turning around, I find him there. One hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other waving a pair of tickets in the air.

"Where do they take us?"

He shrugs. "Who cares. They get us out of here, that's all that matters."

Ambiguity bothers me. But now is not the time. "Fine. We'll do it your way."

There is no answer. Only a smile that stretches his face. One second, an excited child. Ready to go on a train ride and see the world. The next, a cold corpse. Flesh sagging beneath the black dirt. Eternal smile never, ever goes away. He walks and walks, scaring everyone he meets. Jack is a scary corpse boy. He is _my _scary corpse boy. With permanent half-moons beneath his eyes. They're smooth as marble. Kissing them is like kissing frozen flower petals. Be careful. They might break.

I'm staring at them as we sit on the rotting bench. He talks and rubs them every so often. Can't look away. He reminds of a sleepy panda. Jack's there with his pale, frozen skin. Especially white in the setting sun, his body ringed in flame. And the clouds are sucking everything in. If I blink, it looks like the horizon is coughing.

Just like me.

"Hic? You okay?"

I nod.

"Come on, now is not the time for hyperventilating." He slaps my back once, twice, three times. Rough hands turn soft and now he's rubbing my spine. Feel the fingers dance along my vertebrae. One, two, three sharp bones.

"I-I'm okay… I'm okay." This is the second time this has happened today. My mind goes to dark places. Maybe I was stabbed and I don't know it. And I'm trying to cough up blood and flesh and bits of lung. Or maybe I have lung cancer. Wouldn't be surprised if those office buildings were full of asbestos. Or maybe I'm just paying for all the lives I've taken. Life is being a little shit and slowly taking my life away. No, no, that doesn't make sense. None of these do. But you have to understand, I'm the type of person that goes on Web MD and convinces myself I have a terminal illness.

Last month, it was brain tumors. My head was killing me all week. Not the dull pain that rests behind your eyes. The stabbing pain that digs into your skull. Jack told me to relax. Web MD told me to panic. Real doctors in white coats told me to watch my caffeine intake. It was caffeine withdrawal. How anti-climactic. Now Jack calls me a coffee obsessed hipster. How anti-hilarious.

Two weeks ago, it was Still's Disease. My fingers were gnarled like tree roots. Curling into themselves, into my palms. Jack told me to stop drawing so much. Web MD told me that though rare, this disease included arthritis, rashes, and spiking fevers. I took my temperature five times in one day. Then I listened to Jack for once. And yeah, it was an excess of drawing. Holding a pencil for ten hours straight tends to do that.

So I tell myself that I'm fine. Because if I think hard enough, I can make saliva taste like blood.

"Hey, Hic."

I turn to him. "What?"

"Stop blaming yourself."

My cheeks are burning for no reason. "W-What? Who said I was blaming myself?"

"Please, you can't hide anything from me. I know what you're thinking about under those sexy, brown locks." He ruffles my hair.

Cheeks burn even brighter. "So tell me, what am I thinking about, oh omnipotent one."

"Bitch." Your hand stays atop my head. Long fingers massage my scalp. "Fine, I'll tell you. You're thinking about all the ways you could have avoided this. How you could have stayed home today, or controlled your anger, or stopped carrying that scalpel around in your sock. And it's eating away at you. I can tell. The shaking legs, the trembling fingers. You feel bad for some reason. I don't know why, that bastard deserved it."

My laugh is hollow. "You've never even met my boss. How do you know I did the right thing? He could have been an innocent person. For all you know, I could've broken our code."

Now he's laughing. "That's stupid. Everything you just said is stupid. I don't have to meet your boss to know he's a bastard. If you killed someone, they deserved to die. I trust you."

Trust. Trusts me. I… I don't what to think. Or say. Or do. His fingers move around my skull. Pull me forward so that our noses touch. Take a deep breath. It rattles my ribcage. My whole body. I'm shaking in the sun. Jack grabs my hand. Holds all of me against him.

"Stop feeling bad. There's nothing worse than guilt."

Words whispered in ears. Cold ears that feel the heat of letters and pauses and commands. He tells me to stop feeling bad. So I should stop feeling bad. Right? Together, we're melting in the sun. Bodies pressed up against each other. My chin is on his shoulder, his arms around my back. Even though I'm taller than him, I am the baby right now. Small and scrunched up. There are few things between us. Air, light, shadows, energy. Secrets, lies, desires, stories. Stories that we tell in the dead of night. We are strung together like beads on a bracelet, worn on a scarred and dirty wrist. I hug him hard and push him down on the bench. Letting my weight force his bones to move my way.

"Damn, Hic, you're heavy. Lay off the Oreos."

I laugh into his neck. "Like I care what you think."

"Point taken. But seriously, what are you doing?"

Shrug. Laugh. Shrug again. "Snuggling, dumbass. Don't move."

"Whatever you say…"

His sternum is better than a pillow. Ribs fan outward, cradle me as I cry. They're silent tears. Can't let him see me like this. His boyfriend, the big crybaby.

We say nothing else. Me in my blood-stained clothes and him in his blue sweatshirt. Smell of iron and fabric softener and stale cigarettes. Enough to put me to sleep. But I can't. Not now. He told me not to worry. He told me not to feel bad. Easier said than done. Because they'll find us. And what will we do then? My eyes are wide open. Jack hums Fly Me to the Moon by Sinatra. Yes, let's go to the moon. Away from everyone else. Because they'll find us. And when they do, that suburban house will completely disappear.

Five minutes before the train pulls up, I change clothes. Blood-stained office attire isn't very chic. Jack pulls stuff out of his backpack. Faded jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck.

He says, "You look hot in those," and gives me a wink. 

I feel those blue eyes on me as I change. With my back to him, I take my time. Almost like a performance. Unbutton one at a time. Listening to that bated breath. Smiling and knowing that I make him anxious. It's hard to open. All of that blood has dried and turned the cotton stiff. I take it off. Slowly. Shimmying it down my arms. Heat touches my skin. I shiver, goosebumps erupting all over. That can be sexy, too… I guess. So I flex my shoulders and let the blades poke out. Each vertebrae rolling and popping as I do so. White office shirt gathers at my wrists. Wait for a moment. Let the anticipation build. Like the moments right before the final stroke. When you lift the knife and wait for them to look at you. Pleading with two eyes that are no longer eyes. They are empty electrical sockets. Useless, damaging. Because when you stab them, you are also hurting yourself. Funny how that works. When you sink into them with your blade, you feel it. The shock that fries your nerve endings. It's subtle at first. Then you kill again. Again. Again. And it gets stronger. And then you are numb to pain and those eyes mean nothing.

Undressing in front of Jack is like that. He's probably licking his lips right now. He always does that when he's anxious. Just a few more seconds. That puppy growl comes out. I grin and let the shirt fall. There isn't a sound when it drops. 

The air is full of cold heat. If that's possible. Too warm to breathe, too cold not to. I need to fill myself up with something real.

"Look at that fine ass."

Jack's comments will do.

They push me forward.

My pants are thrown into the bushes. I'd like to burn them, but there's no time. Jack whistles when I stretch. Standing on tiptoe and trying to touch the sun. Except I'm smarter than that. Icarus flew too close and look what happened to him. Still, I go high as I can.

"Your Loki boxers are cute."

"Shut up."

He laughs behind me. "Aw you're blushing. No wait… that's just the blood on your face."

Another eye-roll. "Idiot. I didn't have time to wash it off. And I still have this damn heart on my face, too. Thanks."

"You're very welcome. Now change already, you're giving me a raging boner over here."

Grinning, I hop into the clean pair of pants. "I never understood that phrase. Why is it raging? Is it angry or something?"

"Smartass." Those cold arms wrap around me, lift me off the ground for a second.

Sometimes, Jack can be so strong. Acrobatic muscles and tendons let him do backflips off the wall. You can see the strength in his body. Bones are full of blood and marrow. Thick, red blood that's almost black. Cutting him has always been a dream of mine. Not in the killing kind of way. But the soft way, the artist's way. Using a thin scalpel to trace shapes across his back. Then I would cut horizontally along his arms. Because everyone knows that vertical stripes can kill. I bet his blood would move so slow. Like he's almost in a state of hypothermia. Everything about Jack is semi-frozen. Even the way his fingers move along my abdomen.

Pointer taps my navel, middle rubs my happy trail. Jack calls it my "raw vikingness". The only real proof that my ancestors were badasses who sailed the North Sea. He won't let me shave it. He says it makes me even hotter because he can run his tongue down the dark hair with his eyes closed. Find my hard dick and go to work.

Now I have a raging boner.

He drums his fingers against my stomach. "I would love to clean you up now, but the train is coming. Put your shirt on."

I sigh and hold it up. It's wrinkled as hell. "You don't know how to work an iron, do you?"

"It's better this way. If your cheeks were clean and your shirt ironed, you'd look too perfect."

"And people always suspect the perfect ones."

He nods into my shoulder. "Yeah."

There's a laugh behind my lips. "Well with that logic, we'll never get caught."

And then we're laughing together and the train is coming down the tracks. Just like he said. Is it our freedom or our demise? Am I always this corny when I'm nervous? He grips me tighter. I want to cry. And the train keeps coming. Keeps. Keeps. Coming. 


	4. Chapter 4

Automatic doors open in front of me. I'm wearing clean clothes that smell like Jack. Icy and smoky. This train is so old. The tile is chipped and broken, the air doesn't move. A faceless conductor takes our tickets and disappears into the cars. For a moment, I wonder if this is even real.

Jack looks side to side before stepping in. "Huh. Looks like the one in Spirited Away."

I roll my eyes. "Idiot." 

I have to shove him in with both hands. He acts all stupid and pretends that gravity is forcing him back. But we have to escape. I'm covered in blood and hiding my face. There's no one here to see me. Jack tries to tell me that.

"I know. I know. But still…"

My skin is hard beneath my fingertips. Cracking like an actor's makeup. It happens on stage, too. In front of everyone. Audience members gasp. This man is falling apart in front of their eyes. Eyes, eyes, eyes all yellow and full of heat. They melt his face from above. Feel it running down his cheekbones. And he is the center of it all. That poor actor. Oh wait, that actor is me. Shaking and realizing that my role is officially over.

I blink and the train is sprinting down the tracks.

Blinking makes the seconds go by. Time has passed. We're sitting in the plastic seats. No one next to us. No one beside us. No one inside of us. No one except my own subconscious. It whispers to me in the dark. Mean things that make my stomach turn. Jack is falling asleep on my shoulder. His heavy head threatens to break my bones. I try to shrug him off.

"No… no… stop." He burrows into wrinkled fabric. He should have ironed this shirt.

"Jack, get off me."

"But you're so warm."

I would laugh, but nothing's funny. A few hours ago, I killed a man. Left an intern on the cold, wet floor. Fled a crime scene covered in blood and piss. Let Jack down. Let myself down. And now everything is ruined. Shaking my head does nothing. The thoughts are still there. The paint is still cracking.

Standing up, I push Jack aside. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Fine. Go ahead and leave me, douchebag." Those whines are puppy-like. He's stretched out on the seat. Looking up at me with dark shadows and angry lines. Eye color doesn't even matter anymore. All I see is the black and blue that reminds me of oil paint. I want to cut them away with my scalpel.

No, stop thinking like that. Shaking my head does nothing. Still.

Fingers grab my wrist. Drum my blue veins. "I'm joking, Hic. You're not a douchebag, you're a bitch."

"Oh geez, thanks."

"Don't be sensitive. You know I love you. But seriously, you okay?"

My veins are throbbing.

His fingers are tapping.

What should I say? Those fingers are comforting. That voice sounds so sincere. Maybe I don't want to cut him.

I shrug. "Honestly, no. I mean, look at me."

"What about you? I love my men dipped in blood. And the heart is a nice touch, too."

"No, it's not." A part of me thinks it is. But I won't say that. "Now I'm going to clean this shit off my face. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

I never get his response. One blink later and I'm in the cramped bathroom. Lights shake as the train rolls over the tracks. Long scratches cover the glass. This mirror in front of me, smudged and looking dull; I can barely see my own face. Rectangles of light slide back and forth. Over my cheeks, my nose. Each slide showing me more. The blood is peeling. Slowly pull it off and flick it into the sink. When the water runs, it's liquid again. Funny how that works. It's just like paint. All of that blood turns soft against the drain. I watch it spiral down. And slowly, slowly pull it off. Now half my face is clean. The pink heart is still there. Damnit.

Scrubbing doesn't help. I keep going until my skin is red and raw. Still there. Keep going until my fingernails make white lines across the cheekbones. No, no, no, it's still there. So I keep going until white turns red and then back again and then the red comes screaming through as the drops burst out of every pore. I scratch the heart away with every ounce of strength I have. Pain is real. That is something I know is true. What do I remember about my childhood? The warm hugs? The wet kisses on my cheek? That's cliché and stupid. Shattered bones are easily recalled. That time I broke every muscle climbing out of a canal. Some kids threw me down there. I don't remember why they did it. I just hear the silence that covers my ears. Thick, green water that smells of ink. See the black sky come crashing down. As I bob and roll into the mud. Black skies look like ink. Black mud tastes like ink. And that's when I decided to draw. Spitting muck and grass blades from my mouth, I thought about pens gliding over paper. It all seemed so beautiful. But I was a kid lying flat on my face. When I closed my fist, the mud was just mud. Like I always say, none of us are special. I used to throw my victims into canals.

Only difference, I climbed out. They didn't.

I want to smile about that.

I'm smiling now as I scratch my face. There are red stripes and black stripes and pale stripes. Coming all together to form this. This horrible painting in the mirror. No one would ever paint me. I come from darkness. Darkness comes from me. It's a two way street. My reflection is rare and bloody. Dripping with water and bits of red. Pieces of skin stick to the sink. That heart is barely there. A shallow hole in the side of my face.

Blink, grin, blink, grin. I'm a monster in the mirror. But not really, because I'm just a man. So were Manson and Bundy and the Zodiac Killer. There are no monsters under the bed. Only men crouching in your closet.

Years ago, there was a serial killer in my neighborhood. My inspiration. He appeared out of nowhere. My foster mom called him a ghost. I called him a genius. Because he was smarter than the police and the Neighborhood Watch. He weaved in and out of locked doors. One guy put security cameras outside his house. His wife was killed in the garage. I hated that family, anyways. Their sons threw rocks at me whenever I walked by. It's a shame the Ghost didn't get them, too.

But I wished for it. Hell, I wished for it every night. Almost like a prayer. Jack asked Manny to kill them. I never expected him to pull through.

I followed the Ghost in the papers. Red tacks from Office Depot held clippings in place. He only struck at night, so his name started to change. Each killing was more and more brutal. It went from Ghost to Phantom to Nightime Fury to the Night Fury. And that is where it stayed. He haunted us for weeks. Haunted me for even longer.

Every other child was stuck inside. I wandered the cul-de-sacs at night. And then I saw him in the woods. A black evening, no stars, no moon. Just that monster waiting for me. It grinned at me. It reached for me. And I went willingly. Yellow eyes swallowed me whole.

I asked, "What's your name?"

It said, "Night Fury."

It's real name was something else, of course. Because there are no monsters, only men. I don't remember what it was. Something Black, I think. Whatever it was, none of it matters anymore.

He smiled at me in the dark. "Hey… kid."

"H-Hi."

"Your voice is shaking."

"Well yeah. I know who you are."

I swear he could hear me swallow. My fingers trembled in my pocket.

"Oh you do, huh? Who am I?"

"You're, uh, you're the serial killer."

"Hmm… you're a smart kid." He ran his tongue over his teeth. "So what do you think of me?"

Two layers between me and my bare skin. Inside deep pockets, my fingers kept tapping. I wanted to jump out of my body and run. But I didn't. "What do you mean?"

He sighed and closed those yellow eyes. "What do you think about me, as a person? Or do you even think of me as a person at all?"

"Of course you're a person." I could feel the smile coming on. This guy was like me. "Monsters aren't real."

And he smiled, too. "Oh yeah, you're a smart one."

Grey fingers ruffled my hair. They moved through the air. Like everything was in slow motion. Maybe I heard him breathe, maybe I heard him gasp. Maybe it was all a dream. In a second, he was gone. The Night Fury vanished into the trees.

Jack told me he was so jealous. I nodded and stared at the wall. Then I turned to him and said, "Let's do it. Let's kill someone. I think I'm ready now."

So we did.

All thanks to the "Night Fury."

I say it into the mirror. Forehead pressed against the glass. Someone knocks on the door. I wonder who it is.

"Hic, you okay?"

"I'm fine." I stick a piece of toilet paper against my cheek. It turns red fast. "You can come in if you want."

The door isn't locked. Takes him a few moments to realize that. Jack bursts in, letting the deadbolt slam. He stands behind me and watches our reflections. Fingers come up; wipe the blood off my chin. He's quiet. Over the years, he's learned not to say anything. We are statues in the mirror. Two cheap ass masterpieces that no one would buy. I am tall, sunburnt, and covered in freckles. They're brighter than ever in this lighting. Jack could pick them off like chocolate chips. He is thin, pale, and the color of a corpse. Whenever he sleeps he looks dead. With the blood rushing over his arm, he is pure marble. I think of that famous painting. The one with the couple in front of the farmhouse. He's the old lady and I'm the old guy with the pitchfork.

He rips off more squares of toilet paper. "Guess you didn't like my heart."

"Of course I liked it."

Keeps staring at my reflection. "Sarcasm?"

"Actually, no. I did like it." The outline is still visible. "But the blood was drying, I needed something fresh."

"So you used your own blood. You're sick."

And the way he says that rips my spine in two. Shadows beneath his eyes are darker than ever. I can almost hear his concern. All those questions that build up in his lungs. Why did I do this? Why do I make myself bleed? Why do I feel bad for doing what I want?

His hands are in my back pockets. Feel that body against mine. Sweatshirt ripped and full of smoke. A knee slides between my thighs. Three femurs all lined up. Closing my eyes, I see us as we are. Skeletons tangled together. Two bodies in a dumpster that will never be found. Patellas touch in the softest of ways. Lightly tapping, reminds me of the raven rapping. Edgar Allen Poe is too typical for us. I mean seriously, two serial killers reading the Pit and the Pendulum? How stereotypical can you get? If anything, we're quite the opposite. He reads comic books and kid stories about Jack Frost. I like epic fantasies. Late at night, we sit beneath the cool sheets. Watching TV, playing with each other in different ways. He'll stroke my hair as I fall asleep. I'll trace shapes on his back. We'll hold hands under the blanket. Exchange sloppy kisses that feel dog-like. Suck, settle, squirm. This never ending cycle. Lips fasten onto necks. Tracheas are long and bumpy. He sucks on it like a straw. I settle into bed. Right now, I settle into the sink. I squirm when he grabs me. Right now, I squirm when his mouth closes around mine.

Happens so fast. My boxers are on but I feel naked. Once again I am stripped. To my core. I hold the strings of his sweatshirt. Twirl them around my thumbs. He tangles long fingers in my hair. Not a word is spoken.

The train keeps moving.

My cellphone vibrates in my pocket. Jack moans. Red lips trail along jaws and cheekbones. It vibrates again. Another moan. Damn thing keeps going.

"H-Hic…" Jack's tibia knocks into mine. He tries to climb onto the sink. "Take out your phone, Hic." Kisses on my bleeding flesh. Tongue lapping at the wound. "Hic… take it out. Shove it down my pants or something."

"No, idiot."

I'm hot, too. Trust me. The bulge in my pants is growing. If I could flip him over and get to it, I would. But I can't. I know who's calling. They think I'm a fool. Stupid enough to answer. Guys in blue are chasing us. They want me to answer so they can trace so they can catch so they can cuff. We'll be hauled away like animals.

My foster parents were afraid to touch a rabid dog. The Night Fury told me I was smart enough to see him for what he was. Animals. Monsters. Why can't people just say human? Monsters are easier to imagine. Floating heads, red eyes, tentacles under your bunk bed. Try imagining a human. It's scary because it could be anyone. Your mother, your father, yourself. Ambiguity equals safety. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

The cellphone keeps buzzing.

Jack growls into my neck. "Answer it or I'll shove it up your ass."

"No. It's the police. I'm not stupid." Rolling my eyes, I shove him off. Caller ID is blank. "See? It's them. I know it's them."

"You're overreacting."

"I'm being smart." Blue light is blank. Empty. Unknown. Unknown. He doesn't try to take it from me. So I do the only rational thing.

The toilet accepts my phone. It tumbles down and sinks into the water. Flushing it with my foot is the easiest thing I've ever down.

Jack's on the tile. Laughing.

I want to tell him to get up and stop being such a child. None of this is funny. A broken phone is not just a broken phone. Pieces of plastic can cut skin. Two halves lie in the belly of a pipe. They're crushed and will never work again. Our life is broken. That house has finally fallen apart. Blood stains are not magic marker. They stay with you forever. And my flushed phone will always be in that pipe. Someday a plumber will pop off the elbow and it'll come pouring out. Dead and broken. No one will ever know it was mine.

And that isn't funny.

Jack keeps laughing. I lean against the sink. Metal is cold beneath my hands. "Stop it, already. None of this is—"

"Shut up."

He says it too fast, head snapping up.

"What? You hear something?"

"I said shut up."

It takes three seconds for him to look older than ever. Purple shadows bruise his eyes. Pink and red drain from his cheeks. Colors ripped from a canvas. I don't know what to think. Life sticks syringes in our veins. It sucks Jack's life away.

When I was young, it filled me up with animal fire. This is a special kind of fire. It comes from impassioned things that run across plains. Tongues lag in the heat. Ears and toes burn with each step. Animals are made of chaos. Almost breaking bones and muscles bundled like straws. They do what they want. When they want. Life gave me this urge. I wanted to be a cat stalking its prey in the desert. I wanted to tear people with my claws. Cutting my own flesh made me shiver. Cutting another's flesh made me burn. All over and inside, too.

When I was older, life pumped me full of dragon fire. The kind that sits in your stomach and rips you apart. From the inside out. You hold everything in. Work is a cage. Your mind is a No Man's Land. And bed is the only place you can be yourself. Still you tell yourself, "I don't do this for fun. No of course not. I do this for the weak, for justice." Yeah. Just keep believing that.

Right now, I can see the fire slipping from his veins. White as printer paper.

Jack is never serious. He's always playing games. He took his sister skating once. The ice was thin, you could see the water swirling under them. It cracked and he tried to play a game. Come on, hold my hand and we'll go home. Together. Laughing about how we almost died. He wanted them to play hopscotch across the snow. But she couldn't hold on. Jack says her eyes spoke to him.

"Please brother, don't make me leave."

She fell anyway.

The rain keeps rolling over the tracks. Jack stares at me and listens.

Listens for what?

"Jack, what's wrong?"

"I hear…" He cocks his head. "Don't you hear that? Like something's coming."

"What?" Now I cock my head. "No, no, there's nothing there. Just silence."

"It's always silent before a snowstorm. Have you noticed that?" His eyes are wider than the moon. He is changed. Huddled against the door and tapping his shins with bony fingers. Laughter evaporates.

What is it? What the hell is wrong? I want to ask these things but nothing comes out. Time isn't even moving. It's the slow tick, the tick that comes with waiting in a classroom or a doctor's office or a morgue. Fifty seconds before they call you in to identify the bodies. You sit and wait with your hands shaking between your legs. And when you look at the clock, nothing has changed.

The bathroom is stuck in a time warp.

A long time ago, I had an imaginary friend. His name was Toothless. We did everything together. We went to the park, played tag out in the forest, pretended we were aliens, cowboys, superheroes, anything. He had black hair and eyes like a cat.

I told him this one day.

He just rolled those cat-eyes and smirked like he always did when I annoyed him. "Only you would say that. What a nerd."

"Hey…don't call me that. You heard what Mom said, I'm not a nerd. So stop calling me one! I'm smart, that's what Mom says. I'm not a nerd. Just smart."

That person I called "Mom" was just a foster parent. Being young makes you hope for the best. She kept me for three months before throwing me back.

Tooth rolled those cat-eyes again. "You're 'special', that's what your mom said. I heard her."

I couldn't look at him.

Because he was right.

Mom told all of her friends that I was her "special" child. I wasn't smart, yet I wasn't stupid. I wasn't normal, yet I wasn't crazy. I was just "special". Like I was some kind of eternal neutral. Some of my classmates were ingenious protons, others were hopeless electrons. And I was just a neutron, unknown and uncertain. People tiptoed around me as if I was a neutron ready to explode. But I wasn't. I was a nice kid. Right? I wasn't a monster. Because monsters do not exist.

Right?

"Right."

Jack answers a question I never asked.

Then he says, "I love you, Hic. And not just because you're dipped in blood."

"Huh?"

I look up, see him sitting on the floor. Sinks shake, lights flicker. The world feels so small. Like I am in outer space. Lungs fill up with zero gravity. Strings attach to every molecule. I watch the universe shrink to the size of a dime. Dime the size of his pupil. Pupil constricting in the sun. Sun, what sun? Suns live in the sky, not inside trains. Trains run on tracks and keep going because no one tells them to stop. Stopping is for losers. Losers drop their coffee every morning and are always late to work. Losers get punched in the jaw and watch their teeth fly. Losers die. Losers die, damnit. And that is why I am looking at the sky. Because I'm a loser and Jack's a loser, too. And this train is flipping over itself. Rolling across the rails and grass.

Seven seconds ago, Jack answered a question I'd never asked. He's never seemed more ghost-like. I can feel him passing through my skull.

Six seconds ago, he said "I love you". Something he rarely ever says. "I love you" is reserved for zombie apocalypses and imminent plane crashes. Is this one of those things?

Five seconds ago, the train lurched and I thought nothing. Maybe I'm just dizzy. Maybe it's just vertigo.

Four seconds ago, I fell sideways and he hit his head. Concussions make your eyes go crazy.

One second ago, I looked up and saw the sky over my head. Because the world was turning. Now that I think about it, I heard the metal scraping against metal. Sparks flying as the wheels skidded and the brakes broke. It was the sound Jack was listening for. The calm before a snowstorm. And then it hit and the cars fell like dominoes. Crushed into each other. One by one. We were the last to go. Physics is funny like that. It makes you think that everything is safe. You stick your head out into the open air, take a gulp, and die.

What the hell happened?

All I know is that we crashed. We're crashing as I speak. Jack felt it coming. He felt his sister fall, too. Tiny fingers slipped right through his hands.

His hands are holding mine. I find him in the broken darkness. Lights swing all around. Up, down, longwise, sidewise. Hit the wall. The floor, too. The wall becomes the floor and nothing makes sense. Shearing metal makes my ears bleed. Screams make my throat raw. I am forced. Violated. The train is making me do things I don't want to do. Stop. Life is forceful enough. They ask too much of us.

Nothing stops. Only gets louder as the train is torn apart. Tendons snap and the cars go free and do backflips down the hill. Falling into canals, canals full of deep, dark water that smells like ink. And the muscles shred and the seats go flying. Straight into windows that shatter at ninety miles-an-hour. Bones snap and buckle. I hear them. Human bone sounds so much better. So much nicer. I want to cover my ears but hands no longer work. They slam against the toilet. Snap. The sink. Snap. The shards of porcelain and PVC pipe. Snap, snap. Until bones are turned to seashell dust.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

The human body can only take so much.

Physics is funny like that.

Did you know that my body contains about 5.5 liters of blood? Yours does, too. Let's watch it run across my chest.

Did you know that bone marrow is red? Some of it can be yellow. Look how it dribbles down my leg.

Did you know that it takes a lot more than two hundred newtons to bite off your tongue? I don't know how much force that is. I'm drinking my own blood. And there it is, pink and red and still hot. I try to smile at it. But my teeth are jammed into my jaw.

Did you know that I'm going to die? So are you. We never know when or how. As if that would really matter.

Still, I thought I would die differently.

This is my ideal death.

Right now, I am strapped to a bed. I'm in a white room with a large window on the far wall. I think the window is bulletproof or something. People are sitting outside the window, staring at me.

People I do not know.

I recognize a young man in the front row. He holds a bundle of tissues and his eyes are red. No longer blue as plague. But, somehow, he almost looks happy.

I wish they would stop staring.

I hear a door open, and a man in a white coat walks up to me. He looks down at my body, strapped to this bed like I am some kind of monster.

But according to the twelve, I am a monster. My fingerprints were all over the crime scene.

"You've talked to the priest?"

"Yes… but I'm going to Hell anyways. I'm a liar, you know."

The doctor says nothing. He turns around. I can no longer see his face.

"This won't hurt for very long. It's virtually painless. Now, close your eyes, try to relax."

My eyelids waver. Might as well close them. What's the point of watching?

That could have been my life. Dying like a monster. Even though they don't exist, people still believe in them. Jack used to joke about that.

Prop his feet up on the counter, a grin on his face. "Someday we'll be famous, Hic. Everyone will believe in us. We'll be on TV and people will see our faces. Sure, we'll be cuffed, but does it matter?"

No, not really.

I never cared about that. Fame is not important. But death is. I could have died after one last meal of fish and krumkake and greeted the darkness with a smile on my face. Maybe the Night Fury would be waiting for me. We would talk about each and every victim. Relive the blood and bleached white bone.

But no. I am here. Caught in a random train wreck. The cops probably never called my cellphone. We were minutes from escape. And now I will die in the worst way imaginable.

I will die like a man.

Everything is dark. The black is beautiful…

No, no, no. This darkness is not beautiful. It is not clean. It covers me in silence. The world is a black parade. Funny how things can go from so alive to so… dead. All that pain, and then nothing.

Open my eyes as the darkness recedes. Reality blurs around me. Everything perceived in mirror images. Two rocks instead of one, four burning train cars instead of two. I'm lying in some Crown of Thorns. There is no pain. Ears ringing. Blood sliding down my temple, into my open mouth. The ground breathes beneath me. Blink once. Twice. The world is still bloody.

I see Jack through a curtain of red. He is half an arm, half a leg. There is only one shadowed eye. White hair glows when it is on fire. Like when the sun sets over the polar ice caps. The day dies in a fistful of flame. His right hand reaches for me.

"Hic…"

I want to say a hundred things. Guess I panicked for nothing, huh? We boarded this train and now we're dead. Where were we going, anyways? Did you like having sex with me, be honest. And did you really love me? When you stepped in that day and picked me up off the floor. You were smiling and you called me a bitch. But you meant it in a nice way. I could tell. Did you like my drawings? I tried to draw things you like. Snowy landscapes, pictures of the moon. You liked rubbing the paint off my nose, licking the pastel off my cheeks. I know you did, don't lie. I'm a liar, though, so I shouldn't really say anything. I lied about playing football in the eighth grade. I lied about liking sour gummy worms. I lied about why I killed and why I loved you so much. I didn't kill for justice. I killed for fun.

For you.

And I didn't love you because you were you. I loved you because you were me. When I looked into your eyes, I saw myself.

Remember that day in the hallway? That is where it all began. I saw myself and grabbed your hand. Killing the bullies was fun. So was killing the rapists and the gang leaders and the business men that screwed people over. 

I had the time of my life. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jack.

I want to say a hundred things but I can't. No tongue, no teeth, no gums.

So you speak for me.

Fingers wrap around mine. Your skin is warm instead of cold. Go figure. Blue eye cries silently. No… no, don't cry. We'll come back someday and do it all again. I promise. Half a smile makes me want to laugh. I can't.

You are beautiful right now. I'm serious. And your whisper sends shivers down my spine. My spine that is cracked in two.

You say it and I am back in that house. Our house. Walking the dusty halls that smell of bleach. There are black garbage bags in the corner. Stars are red, blue, and yellow. I can see them through the holes in the roof. On the outside, it looks so nice. But we know the inside. We understand its entrails and the way it shifts and moves. We live in the bowels. We live the dream.

You say it so softly.

"What makes us human?"

The last time you ask me this, we are lying beneath a burning sky. Buried amongst the rose bushes and Crown of Thorns. Not because we want to, but because it is all we have.


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday Paper, Morning Edition

xx/xx/2014

Train Accident Connected to Murder?

Written by: XXX

A derailed train, a dead body in a men's restroom, and two unidentified corpses. These may all seem to be disconnected, but some are saying otherwise.

This mystery began when a train suddenly derailed last week, killing 15 people and injuring 17. Since the introduction of the public bus system, train usage has gone down considerably, leaving many trains uncared for. This particular rail was meant to be decommissioned last year, but due to budgeting issues, was kept open. Authorities say that lack of maintenance and a technical malfunction led to this devastating accident.

Two corpses burned beyond recognition were discovered amidst the wreckage. Coroners have been able to determine that both were male and in their early twenties. As of today, no one has come forward to claim either body.

What does this have to do with last week's murder of XXX, the Human Resources Director of XXX?

The connection lies with Hiccup Haddock, a former employee of XXX. According to witnesses, he was seen exiting the restroom in which Mr. XXX was found. Minutes later, he vanished and has since been reported missing, along with his roommate, Jackson Overland.

After examining the crime scene, authorities confirmed that Haddock's fingerprints and DNA were found on Mr. XXX's body and other surfaces. An intern who witnessed the alleged crime, who will go unnamed, said that Haddock was the perpetrator. As of today, Haddock is a suspect but the search for more suspects continues. 

Although, the evidence does seem to be stacked against Haddock. The day of the murder, both Haddock and Overland disappeared. No one in their apartment building has seen them since.

Could the two burned bodies be that of Haddock and Overland? Were they attempting to flee and instead got caught in a freak train wreck?

Police are saying it is too soon to make assumptions and that as of today, there is no connection between the two burned bodies and the murder of Mr. XXX.

Those who live in Haddock and Overland's apartment appear to share the same sentiments.

"Hiccup and Jack are the sweetest boys. I think people are really grabbing at straws here," said Mrs. XXX, who lives directly across from them. "Jack babysits my children all the time while I'm at work, and Hiccup wouldn't hurt a fly. He's always playing with the landlord's cat."

When asked about her opinion on the murder charges, Mrs. XXX just shook her head. "It might sound naïve of me, but if Hiccup was involved in this at all I'd say he was framed. He's just such a nice boy. So is Jack. They aren't monsters, there's no way. They're just men. Just regular, ordinary men. And nothing will ever change that."


End file.
